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ftp  jFrancic  <$.  fleafcotrp,  ©.2). 

SUNDAY  EVENINGS  IN  THE  COLLEGE 
CHAPEL. 

MORNINGS  IN  THE  COLLEGE  CHAPEL: 
First  Series.  Short  Addresses  to  Young  Men 
on  Personal  Religion. 

MORNINGS  IN  THE  COLLEGE  CHAPEL: 
Second  Series. 

AFTERNOONS  IN  THE  COLLEGE  CHAPEL. 

SUMMARY  OF  THE  REPORT  OF  THE 
COMMITTEE  OF  FIFTY  ON  THE  LIQUOR 
PROBLEM. 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
Boston  and  New  York 


College  Ojapci 


^untiap  Ctoenmgs  in  tfje 
College  Cfmpel 


SERMONS   TO  YOUNG   MEN   BY 

FRANCIS   GREENWOOD   PEABODY,   PLUMMER 

PROFESSOR  OF  CHRISTIAN  MORALS  IN 

HARVARD   UNIVERSITY 


•  *    »  . 


BOSTON   AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

$\)t  tttoerjri&e  ipxtij  Cambridge 

1911 


P&3 


COPYRIGHT,   191 1,   BV   FRANCIS  G.  PEABODY 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  October  iqij 


To  C.  W.  E. 


Severest  critic,  best  of  listeners, 
Questioning  all  things  with  perennial  youth, 
Quick  to  detect  when  faulty  logic  errs, 
Yet  quicker  to  discern  each  note  of  truth  ; 
Men  call  you  unimpassioned,  cold,  and  stern, 
The  last  survivor  of  the  Puritan, 
They  little  know  the  sympathies  that  burn 
For  every  worthy  cause  or  troubled  man. 
Straight  to  its  mark  your  candid  counsel  flies, 
Its  shaft  of  judgment  tipped  with  kind  desire, 
And  those  it  pierces  still  unwounded  risk, 
Chastened  but  strong,  and  purified  by  fire. 

Along  the  coast  where  we  have  lived  together, 
There  comes  at  evening-time,  in  summer  weather, 
A  hush  of  Nature,  when  the  sighing  firs 
Cease  their  complaining,  and  no  land-breeze  stirs 
The  drowsy  ocean;  while  the  burnished  bay 
Mirrors  the  splendor  of  the  dying  day. 
so,  after  many  and  tempestuous  years, 
and  many  an  angry  gale  of  doubts  and  fears, 
The  hostile  breezes  slacken  and  then  cease; 
The  harbor-lights  are  lit,  of  love  and  peace  ; 
And  life's  calm  evening  settles  over  you 
As  sunset  gathers  over  Asticou. 


The  prolonged  vitality  of  three  little  books  of 
Chapel  Addresses  ("  Mornings  in  the  College 
Chapel,"  1896;  "  Afternoons  in  the  College  Chapel," 
1898 ;  "Mornings  in  the  College  Chapel,  Second 
Series"  igof)  tempts  me  to  add  a  concluding  volume 
to  the  series.  Daily  Morning  Prayer  with  a  five- 
minute  talk,  Thursday  Afternoon  Vesper  Service 
with  a  ten-minute  address,  and  Sunday  Evening 
Service  with  a  full-sized  sermon,  made  the  weekly 
routine  of  worship  during  the  twenty  happy  years  of 
my  administration  in  the  College  Chapel;  and  the 
volumes  of  which  this  is  the  last  are  my  testimony 
of  gratitude  for  an  opportunity  such  as  few  preachers 
have  ever  been  permitted  to  share.  The  continual 
challenge  of  a  completely  voluntary  system  of  wor- 
ship, the  offering  to  religion  of  a  fair  chance — and 
nothing  more — among  the  competing  interests  of 
University  life,  and,  more  than  all,  the  perennial 
romance  and  surprise  of  religious  experience  as  it  is 
met,  and  often  rediscovered,  by  young  men  in  the 
course  of  their  education,  —  their  self-assurance  and 
self-abasement,  their  confidence  and  diffidence,  their 
doubts  and  dreams,  — all  these  incidents  which  create 
the  atmosphere  of  a  University,  give  to  preaching  a 
peculiar  exhilaration.  "  After  all"  Phillips  Brooks 
said  one  Sunday  evening  after  one  of  his  most  irre- 
sistible of  sermons ,  "  this  is  the  greatest  of  preach- 
ing-places." 

vii 


In  sifting  out  the  present  collection  from  the  ser- 
mons of  twenty  years,  I  have  repeatedly  recalled 
another  remark  of  this  unapproachable  master. 
Speaking  in  our  Preachers'  Room  just  before  one 
of  his  visits  to  England,  he  said:  " I  have  been 
trying  to  pick  out  some  sermons  to  use  over  there, 
but  I  find  on  looking  them  over  that  I  have  only 
one  sermon"  What  seemed  at  the  moment  nothing 
more  than  playful  self  depreciation  was  in  one 
sense  profoundly  true.  Even  his  marvelous  versatil- 
ity of  method  and  inexhaustible  wealth  of  illustra- 
tion did  not  disguise  from  him  the  fundamental 
unity  of  his  message  to  the  world.  An  observant 
hearer  once  said  that  Phillips  Brooks  never  preached 
without  using  the  word  "Richness"  The  prof usion 
and  increment  of  powers  and  resources  to  be  attained 
by  the  human  soul  through  communion  with  the 
living  God  was  his  constant  theme.  He  could  not 
preach  without  preaching  his  whole  gospel.  The 
text  of  all  his  sermons  might  have  been  the  sublime 
promise :  "  I  am  come  that  they  might  have  life,  and 
that  they  might  have  it  more  abundantly" 

In  a  much  more  superficial  and  obvious  way  this 
little  book  turns  out  to  contain  but  one  sermon. 
When  its  contents  were  preached,  they  seemed  to 
deal  with  many  subjects ;  but  now  that  they  are 
collected  they  look  like  fragments  of  a  message  which 
was  never  fully  given.  To  interpret  to  young  men 
the  story  of  their  own  experience,  and  then  to  set  this 
limited  experience  in  its  place  among  the  spiritual 
problems  of  the  modern  world, —  this  must  always 
viii 


be  the  aim  of  University  preaching;  and  it  prescribes 
a  form  of  treatment  which  is  inevitably  somewhat 
fixed.  Not  to  begin  with  the  special  problems  of  edu- 
cation is  to  fail  of  contact  with  the  academic  mind  ; 
not  to  make  connection  between  this  experience  of 
education  and  the  great  trunk-lines  of  human  pro- 
gress and  desire  is  to  remain  academic,  provincial, 
and  side-tracked,  as  though  one's  train  of  thought 
had  no  terminal  at  tide-water.  Here,  at  least,  is  the 
reason  —  even  though  it  be  not  an  excuse  — for  a 
uniformity  of  type  which,  on  looking  over  these  ser- 
mons, I  have  found  rather  disconcerting. 

Some  of  the  following  sermons  are  expansions  or 
variations  of  themes  briefly  stated  in  short  talks  at 
Morning  Prayers:  and  for  the  sake  of  curious  stu- 
dents of  homiletics  who  may  care  to  trace  the  devel- 
opment —  or  dilution  —  of  an  idea,  J  have  in  such 
instances  made  a  reference  to  earlier  volumes  in  this 
series.  Finally,  and  in  order  to  indicate  the  histori- 
cal tradition  of  Puritan  piety  which  Harvard  Uni- 
versity inherits  and  cherishes,  I  have  set  at  the  end 
of  this  volume  a  sermon  preached  at  the  250th  an- 
niversary of  the  founding  of  the  College. 

Cambridge,  September,  191 1. 


IX 


CONTENTS 


^ 


FAGB 

I.  The  Great  Waste-Product i 

II.  The  Revealing  of  the  Heart      ....  19 

III.  Work  and  Revelation 35 

IV.  The  Opening  Doors 57 

V.  The  Prodigality  of  Providence  ....  74 

VI.  The  Comfort  of  the  Truth 90 

VII.  The  Wedding-Garment 106 

VIII.  The  Shallows  and  the  Deep 124 

IX.  The  Writing  on  the  Corner-Stone   .    .  142 

X.  Discipline 160 

XI.  The  Parable  of  the  Vacuum 176 

XII.  Pilate.  A  Sermon  on  Palm  Sunday    .    .  197 

XIII.  The  Power  of  the  Endless  Life.  A  Ser- 

mon on  Easter  Sunday 215 

XIV.  The  Christian  Doctrine  of  Social  Ser- 

vice       233 

XV.  The  Signs  of  the  Times 252 

XVI.  A  Broad  Place.  A  sermon  at  the  two 
hundred  and  fiftieth  anniversary  of 
the  founding  of  harvard  college .    .  273 


College  Cfmpel 


THE  GREAT  WASTE  PRODUCT 

Gather  up  the  fragments  that  remain,  that  nothing  be 
lost.—  John  VI,  12. 

|NE  of  the  most  striking  characteris- 
tics of  modern  business  is  the  new 
importance  given  to  the  prevention  of 
waste.  Along  with  the  prodigious  increase  of 
production  procured  by  new  inventions,  new 
processes,  and  new  machinery,  a  further 
source  of  profit  has  been  found  in  utilizing 
material  which  was  once  thrown  away  ;  and 
in  many  forms  of  industry  these  waste-pro- 
ducts, or  by-products,  which  were  once 
merely  slag  or  refuse,  have  become  as  valu- 
able as  the  product  originally  sought.  In  the 
close  competitions  of  modern  business  it  may 
almost  be  said  that  the  difference  between 


Hwirtrap  (EbedJiffS  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

profit  and  loss  is  not  infrequently  determined 
by  the  utilization  of  waste.  A  company  is  or- 
ganized, for  example,  to  make  illuminating 
gas,  and  the  manufacture  is  obstructed  by  a  de- 
posit of  coal-tar.  When,  however,  this  waste- 
product  is  applied  to  industry,  it  is  discovered 
that  its  use  in  the  processes  of  dyeing  is  as 
profitable  as  the  gas  of  which  it  was  once  the 
refuse.  In  the  same  way  a  packing  house,  in 
addition  to  the  meats  it  cures,  finds  a  new 
source  of  profit  in  utilizing  every  scrap  of 
waste,  for  lard,  or  cottolene,  or  glue  ;  or  a  com- 
pany organized  to  refine  oil  enormously  in- 
creases its  income  by  adding  to  its  primary 
intention  the  sale  of  by-products,  such  as 
naphtha,  benzine,  or  paraffine.  Rags,  cinders, 
parings,  husks,  seaweed,  —  all  have  become 
worth  saving.  Fuel,  manure,  paper,  cloth, — 
all  may  be  made  of  waste. 

The  same  discovery  of  unutilized  values  is 
illustrated  on  the  largest  scale  in  the  national 
enterprise  known  as  the  Conservation  Move- 
ment. Rivers  have  been  for  centuries  running 
to  waste,  deserts  have  been  left  unpopulated, 
waterfalls  have  spent  themselves  in  wearing 
away  rocks,  forests  have  been  devastated  by 
fire  or  reckless  cutting ;  until  at  last  the  enor- 


§>tmUap  €uentiiff0  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

mous  dimensions  of  this  wastefulness  have 
been  realized,  and  the  nation,  with  new  fore- 
sight, proceeds  to  tame  its  rivers,  to  irrigate 
its  deserts,  to  transform  its  water-power  into 
light,  and  to  save  for  posterity  its  outraged 
forests.  When  the  historian  of  the  future  nar- 
rates the  events  of  the  present  generation  it 
is  not  improbable  that  this  conservation  of  the 
nation's  wealth  may  seem  the  achievement 
most  worth  recording.  Thousands  of  millions 
of  dollars  are  being  saved  from  total  loss  to 
enrich  hundreds  of  millions  of  citizens  as  yet 
unborn. 

But  what  is  the  great  waste-product  ?  That 
question  was,  in  part,  answered  some  years 
ago  by  the  leading  political  economist  of 
Great  Britain,  in  an  address  to  the  Coopera- 
tive Congress  at  Ipswich.  The  assemblage 
represented  more  than  a  million  of  the  work- 
ing people  of  England  ;  and  their  vast  organ- 
ization, expending  many  millions  of  pounds 
each  year,  was  the  direct  descendant  of  the 
simple  scheme  of  mutual  aid  devised  in  1844 
by  twenty-eight  poor  weavers  of  Rochdale. 
Speaking  to  these  plain  working-people,  Pro- 
fessor Marshall  said  that  they  "  had  utilized 
the  great  waste-product."  It  was,  as  he  ex* 
3 


§>tmfcap  (Kbeninas  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

plained,  the  capacity  for  business  sagacity  and 
management  which  great  numbers  of  people 
might  possess  without  its  ever  being  discov- 
ered and  set  to  work.  The  Cooperative  System 
had  promoted  the  discovery  of  this  unsuspected 
force  of  initiative,  thrift,  foresight,  fraternal- 
ism,  and  leadership.  Men  might  enter  the  ser- 
vice of  some  modest  rural  Society,  where  the 
principles  of  the  organization  gave  them  a 
chance  to  rise,  until  the  same  persons  who  be- 
gan in  the  ranks  might  come  to  very  large  re- 
sponsibilities and  prove  themselves  competent 
to  conduct  vast  business  affairs  with  astonish- 
ing success.  To  demonstrate  the  existence  of 
such  capacity  among  plain  people  and  to  put 
it  to  use,  should  be  regarded,  this  teacher 
said,  as  "  the  greatest  achievement  of  wage- 
earners  in  the  history  of  the  world."  The 
great  waste-product,  that  is  to  say,  is  not  tar, 
or  rags,  or  hide,  but  human  character, — the 
unutilized  intelligence,  ambition,  or  skill, 
which  many  a  man  may  possess  without 
knowing  it,  and  which,  if  it  can  be  found  and 
used,  may  be  the  most  profitable  of  invest- 
ments. 

Here  is  a  test  of  wisdom  which  often  meets 
an  employer.  If  a  manufacturer  were  asked 

4 


§>tmUap  dutoenitifffi  in  t&e  College  Cfoapel 

on  what  single  item  of  cost  his  profits  chiefly 
depended,  he  would  be  likely  to  reply  that 
it  was  not  so  much  on  the  wage-scale,  or  the 
price  of  material,  or  the  cost  of  plant,  as  on 
the  maintenance  of  a  continuous  maximum 
of  production.  Intermittency,  periodicity,  a 
shifting  market,  an  insufficient  supply  of 
labor,  strikes  and  rumors  of  strikes,  —  these 
risks  which  reduce  production  are  the  con- 
stant dread  of  employers.  But  how  shall  one 
secure  this  maximum  of  production  ?  Can  ma- 
chinery be  made  so  perfect  that  the  human  fac- 
tor in  production  may  be  ignored  ?  Is  it  pru- 
dent to  regard  the  loyalty  and  capacity  of  the 
wage-earners  as  a  valueless  waste-product  ? 
Cannot  a  corporation  be  as  sagacious  as  a  Co- 
operative Store  ?  Most  employers  persistently 
believe  that  the  appeal  to  thrift,  economy,  or 
fidelity  will  meet  no  response  from  their  em- 
ployed ;  that  business  is  a  vast  machine,  in 
which  the  working-man  has  become  a  wheel 
interlocking  with  the  rest ;  and  it  must  be 
admitted  that  a  dehumanized,  anonymous, 
mechanical  industrialism  is  the  most  alarming 
characteristic  of  the  present  time.  Precisely 
here,  however,  is  the  opportunity  for  wisdom. 
The   humanization  of   industry  is   the  next 

5 


gmntap  Ctoenuiff*  in  t&e  College  Cfcapel 

step  in  economic  progress.  Administrators 
of  business  who  are  devising  ways  of  utilizing 
initiative,  intelligence,  and  efficiency,  and 
who  give  to  these  contributions  to  production 
their  just  reward,  are  not  only  finding  a  new 
source  of  profit,  but  are  insuring  themselves 
against  strikes,  class-hatred,  and  revolution. 
To  neglect  the  great  waste-product  may 
mean,  not  only  commercial  loss,  but  suspi- 
cion, conflict,  and  disaster.  To  utilize  the 
great  waste-product  may  mean,  not  only  com- 
mercial advantage,  but  humanity,  fraternity, 
and  peace. 

These  lessons  of  commercial  and  economic 
experience  are,  however,  but  suggestions  of  a 
much  more  serious  and  personal  problem.  The 
principle  of  conservation,  which  has  been  so 
lavishly  applied  to  our  national  resources,  and 
which  is  now  an  accepted  principle  in  business 
affairs,  has  hardly  been  approached  in  the 
much  more  vital  concerns  of  the  physical,  or 
moral,  or  religious  life.  We  have  learned  to 
save  our  forests,  but  we  still  waste  our  nerves. 
We  make  the  desert  blossom  into  fertility,  but 
we  permit  thousands  of  children  to  lose  the 
bloom  of  life  by  premature  labor  and  unwhole- 
some homes.  The  same  person  may  with  infi- 
6 


^unUap  CucntnffB  til  the  vCollcffr  vCbapcl 

nite  care  breed  his  cattle,  and  then  make  the 
great  venture  of  marriage  with  no  foresight 
beyond  a  passing  fancy  or  a  commercial  gain. 
We  teach  our  farmers  to  raise  hundreds  of 
bushels  from  land  which  had  been  thought 
hopelessly  sterile,  but  we  permit  thousands  of 
young  people  to  grow  up  without  trade  or  dis- 
cipline, like  abandoned  and  untilled  soil,  and 
in  the  end  to  be  unemployed  because  they  are 
unemployable.  We  train  our  dogs  in  special 
types  of  color  or  shape,  of  scent  or  speed, 
but  we  train  our  children  in  a  rigid  uniformity 
of  lessons  and  examinations,  which  levels  tal- 
ent with  dulness  and  leaves  the  unusual  mind 
quite  undiscovered  even  by  itself.  For  centu- 
ries infinite  pains  have  been  taken  to  produce 
the  best  horses,  or  cows,  or  chickens,  while  it 
has  remained  for  this  generation  to  make  the 
first  approach  to  a  science  of  eugenics,  or  the 
producing  of  healthy  children  and  of  sound 
family  stocks. 

A  still  stranger  fact  about  human  waste  is 
this, — that  it  is  most  reckless  and  prodigal 
in  those  concerns  which  are  most  vital  and 
permanent.  In  the  care  of  the  body  conserva- 
tion has  been  to  some  extent  achieved.  The 
solemn  truths  of  heredity,  and  the  extraordi- 
7 


i&mn&ap  ©toemiiffS  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

nary  capacity  of  physical  life  to  mould  and 
transform  its  tendencies,  are  at  least  recog- 
nized as  science,  even  if  not  applied  in  prac- 
tice. When,  however,  we  turn  to  the  interests 
of  human  life  which  are  unseen  and  eternal, 
the  great  waste-product  seems  to  be  not  only 
unutilized,  but  hardly  suspected.  Sensible 
people  have  learned  enough  of  eugenics  to 
check  or  mitigate  many  physical  disasters ; 
worldly-wise  people  have  learned  to  save  their 
money  and  to  guard  their  health  ;  business 
people  have  discovered  that  a  penny  saved  is 
a  penny  earned  and  have  organized  on  an 
enormous  scale  for  the  prevention  of  waste ; 
working-people  have  learned,  often  by  bitter 
experience,  that  overwork  is  wasteful  extrava- 
gance, and  are  demanding  legislation  and  reg- 
ulation to  conserve  their  ability  to  earn.  But 
how  is  it  with  the  moral  and  intellectual  life, 
for  the  sake  of  which  —  it  may  be  supposed  — 
health  and  money  are  accumulated  and  prized  ? 
No  one  can  observe  the  signs  of  the  time  with- 
out being  struck  by  the  enormous  capacity  for 
spiritual  efficiency  of  whose  existence  even  its 
possessors  are  often  altogether  unaware.  The 
English  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  has 
lately  called  attention  to  the  waste  of  power 
8 


£>tmUap  (Etjcntnfffi  in  tfce  College  C&apel 

involved  in  the  training  of  the  rich.  They  re- 
ceive, he  said,  the  best  that  money  can  buy ; 
their  bodies  and  brains  are  disciplined ;  and 
then  "  they  devote  themselves  to  a  life  of  idle- 
ness." It  is  "  a  stupid  waste  of  first-class  ma- 
terial." Instead  of  contributing  to  the  work 
of  the  world,  they  "  kill  their  time  by  tearing 
along  roads  at  perilous  speed,  or  do  nothing 
at  enormous  expense." 

The  same  story  might  be  told,  in  somewhat 
different  language,  of  many  American  lives. 
A  youth,  for  instance,  of  sound  inheritances 
and  wholesome  tastes,  comes  to  his  manhood 
with  a  fund  of  health,  friends,  education,  and 
money,  and  enters  the  life  of  the  modern 
world.  What  potential  leadership  and  service- 
ableness  are  put  into  his  hands !  What  a  chance 
is  his  to  guide,  to  serve,  to  lift,  to  redeem !  In 
the  great  crisis  of  our  civil  war  men  no  older 
than  he,  and  of  no  better  stuff,  found  them- 
selves suddenly  colonels  or  generals,  with  the 
fate  of  an  army  committed  to  them ;  and  the 
new  and  not  less  ominous  conflicts  of  indus- 
trial and  social  life  are  now  waiting  for  just 
such  disciplined  and  generous  men  to  take 
command.  Now  watch  this  youth  as  the 
world's  work  and  play  lay  hold  on  him  and  he 
9 


§>tmUai>  €benm&;s  in  ttje  College  Cbapd 

becomes  immersed  in  the  routine  and  fri- 
volity of  life.  Money  and  sport,  getting  and 
spending,  office  and  club,  overwhelm  his  ideal- 
ism and  sweep  him  into  the  current  of  com- 
monplace, until  he  sinks  into  the  monotonous 
ocean  of  mediocrity.  Nothing  that  is  base  or 
discreditable  need  be  reported  of  this  submerg- 
ence of  a  soul.  The  man  may  emerge  at  last 
a  respectable,  comfortable,  portly  citizen,  to 
be  described  in  the  commercial  phrase  of  our 
obituaries  as  "  successful."  But  what  a  waste 
has  there  been  of  the  finest  stuff ;  what  pre- 
cious by-products  have  remained  unutilized ; 
what  undiscovered  strength  of  character  and 
unsuspected  resources  of  nobility  and  wisdom, 
have  been  drowned  by  the  rising  tide  of  pros- 
perity or  indolence!  Does  it  need  a  bloody 
war  to  reveal  the  heroic  traits  which  exist  in 
young  men  to-day  as  surely  as  they  were  latent 
in  the  young  men  of  1861,  or  shall  some  new 
science  of  spiritual  conservation  rescue  from 
waste  the  undiscovered  character  which  is 
needed  for  works  of  peace  not  Jess  than  for 
deeds  of  war  ? 

Or  a  girl  finds  herself  swept  into  the  re- 
volving circle  of  social  obligations,  until  her 
days  and  nights  are  exhausted  by  the  give 


S>tmUap  Ctoctuiifffi  in  tbe  College  Chapel 

and  take,  the  shuffling  and  winning,  of  the 
social  game.  It  may  be  a  harmless  part  she 
plays,  it  may  even  be  a  frivolity  appropri- 
ate to  her  age,  yet  she  becomes  more  and 
more  aware  of  unsatisfied  ideals,  and  unful- 
filled consecration.  A  disturbing  sense  of 
waste  invades  her  self-centred  carelessness, 
and  reveals  to  her  the  insidious  approach  of 
selfishness,  despondency,  and  despair.  "Oh, 
for  some  imperative  call,"  she  cries,  "  of  duty 
or  desire,  of  service  or  sacrifice,  which  may 
rescue  me  from  this  progressive  paralysis  of 
my  own  soul,  and  give  me,  not  merely  a  pleas- 
ant use  of  half  my  life,  but  the  full  use  of 
powers  and  gifts  of  which  I  am  dimly  and  oc- 
casionally aware ! " 

The  same  sense  of  unutilized  resources  con- 
fronts one  in  the  larger  relations  of  associated 
life.  The  vast  work  of  public  charity,  for  ex- 
ample, in  which  a  fortune  is  sunk  each  year, 
is  in  most  places  a  monument  of  extravagance 
and  recklessness,  loosely  organized,  wastefully 
administered,  and  reducing  to  permanent 
pauperism  a  considerable  proportion  of  its 
recipients.  In  a  well-organized  modern  State 
there  would  remain,  no  doubt,  suffering  and 
sickness,  old  age  and  death,  and  these  trage- 
ii 


Smirtiap  ©toning;*  in  t&e  College  Cfcapel 

dies  of  life  would  bring  with  them  destitution ; 
but  in  such  a  State  there  would  not  be  pau- 
perism in  the  sense  of  a  permanently  depend- 
ent and  unemployable  class.  The  poor,  as  Jesus 
Christ  said,  we  have  always  with  us ;  but  the 
pauper,  as  an  English  writer  has  remarked,  is 
a  work  of  art,  the  creation  of  wasteful  sym- 
pathy and  legislative  inefficiency. 

What  is  true  of  public  relief  is  not  less  evi- 
dent in  private  charity.  When  Mr.  Charles 
Booth's  monumental  study  of  London  first  ap- 
peared, it  seemed  to  many  readers  to  reach  a 
very  shocking  conclusion.  One  third  of  the 
population,  it  appeared,  were  earning  incomes 
so  small  and  precarious  as  to  leave  them  below 
the  margin  of  self-support.  An  opposite  state- 
ment of  the  same  facts  may,  however,  be 
equally  suggestive.  If  it  be  true  that  one  fam- 
ily out  of  three  is  below  the  poverty-line,  it  is 
not  less  true  that  two  families  out  of  three 
are  above  that  line,  ranging  from  those  who 
barely  maintain  self-support  to  those  who 
live  in  affluence.  In  other  words,  if  two  such 
families  could  combine  to  bear  the  burden  of 
one  less  fortunate  home  —  procuring  work, 
advising  in  trouble,  training  children,  relieving 
temporary  distress  —  the  whole  vast  and  por- 

12 


gmntoap  €toentng;c  in  t&e  College  Cfcapel 

tentous  enterprise  of  London  charity  would 
cease  to  exist.  The  problem  remains  unsolved 
and  threatening  simply  because  the  capacity 
for  personal  service  which  already  exists  in  the 
prosperous  classes  has  not  been  recognized 
or  applied,  and  because  great  numbers  of 
prosperous  citizens  have  not  the  least  idea 
that  they  have  a  personal  duty  to  do,  or  give 
any  portion  of  their  time  and  means  to  do  it. 
If  this  be  true  of  the  huge  aggregation  of 
lives  which  London  holds,  it  is  much  more 
obvious  in  the  less  overwhelming  conditions 
of  smaller  towns.  Effective  relief  of  the  poor 
cannot  be  secured  by  official  bureaus  or  dele- 
gated responsibility.  It  is  a  personal,  individ- 
ualized and  continuous  task,  to  be  accom- 
plished only  as  the  social  conscience  of  the 
entire  community,  which  has  so  long  been  a 
neglected  by-product  of  modern  life,  is  set  to 
fulfil  its  proper  work  of  saving  persons  through 
persons,  and  applying  the  force  of  compassion 
through  the  machinery  of  scientific  charity. 

When  we  pass,  finally,  from  physical  and 
moral  illustrations  of  the  waste-product  of 
humanity,  and  come  to  the  religious  interests 
of  modern  life,  the  case  is  the  most  serious  of 
all.  As  one  surveys  the  activities  of  the  re- 

*3 


Stm&ap  <£toening0  in  tbe  College  Chapel 

ligious  world,  he  recognizeslwith  appreciation 
and  gratitude  the  enormous  volume  of  zeal, 
generosity  and  consecration  which  are  de- 
voted to  the  maintenance  and  extension  of 
the  Christian  Church ;  yet  he  cannot  fail  to 
see  at  the  same  time  how  vast  a  force  of 
spiritual  energy  and  efficiency  is  left  unutil- 
ized by  prevailing  methods,  and  what  a  mul- 
titude of  persons  who  ought  to  be  contributors 
to  Christian  efficiency  are  regarded,  and 
even  regard  themselves,  as  waste-products, 
inapplicable  to  the  supreme  work  of  human 
redemption.  To  a  great  and  increasing 
number  of  thoughtful  persons,  the  Christian 
Church  has  become  little  more  than  a  social 
organization  which  is  a  survival  of  other 
ages,  or  a  social  club  which  is  of  interest  to 
its  members  alone.  Such  persons  go  their 
way,  like  the  men  of  the  parable,  one  to  his 
farm,  and  another  to  his  merchandise;  one  to 
his  golf,  and  another  to  his  trade-union  ;  and 
leave  religion  to  the  sentimentalists,  the  theo- 
logians, and  the  reactionaries.  At  such  a  time, 
what  is  organized  Christianity  called  on  to  do  ? 
It  is  summoned  to  overhaul  its  machinery  and 
ideals,  and  to  take  new  account  of  its  efficiency 
and  aims.  Are  its  teachings  and  methods 
14 


§uitfjap  CDrntntro  in  t&e  College  Chapel 

utilizing  the  entire  volume  of  spiritual  power 
which  is  at  its  command?  Has  it  not  rejected 
resources  which  are  its  legitimate  possessions  ? 
Has  it  not  deterred  from  cooperation  rather 
than  won  to  loyalty  ?  Problems  of  ritual,  con- 
troversies of  creed,  rivalries  of  sects,  claims 
of  authority,  exhilarating  as  these  activities 
of  the  Christian  Church  may  be  to  the  ecclesi- 
astical mind,  are  to  persons  bred  in  the  hab- 
its of  the  modern  world  as  remote  and  unreal 
as  the  concerns  of  another  planet.  A  church 
must  have  a  doctrine  as  a  body  must  have 
clothes,  but  to  regard  details  of  doctrine  as 
the  essentials  of  the  Christian  life  seems  to 
great  numbers  of  people  to-day  like  study- 
ing one's  necktie  and  neglecting  one's  soul. 
Must  it  then  be  confessed  that  the  life  of  the 
present  age  is  destined  to  remain  outside  the 
work  of  religion,  — a  discarded  waste-product, 
to  be  given  over  to  irreligion,  indifference, 
and  contempt  ?  On  the  contrary,  there  never 
was  a  more  poignant  cry  than  goes  up  from 
the  modern  mind  for  light  on  the  way  of  life, 
for  a  rational  faith,  a  justified  hope,  a  redemp- 
tion from  sin,  a  practical  Gospel.  The  soul  of 
the  modern  man  has  an  unconquerable  crav- 
ing for  communion  with  the  Eternal,  and  cries 

'5 


iSmnUap  Cneninga  in  t&e  College  C&apei 

with  Augustine  :  "  My  heart  is  restless  until 
it  finds  rest  in  Thee."  The  possibilities  of  the 
religious  life,  instead  of  being  limited  or  out- 
grown, have  never  been  fairly  realized  or  ap- 
plied. The  greatest  of  waste-products  is  the 
spiritual  nature  of  man.  To  discriminate  be- 
tween the  accidents  of  faith  and  its  essence, 
to  bring  to  the  service  of  religion,  not  a  part 
of  a  man  but  the  whole  of  him,  to  consecrate 
home,  business,  politics,  art,  and  science  in  the 
name  of  Christ,  to  take  people  just  as  they 
are  and  make  them  believe  in  their  own  spirit- 
ual capacity,  —  this  is  the  work  of  spiritual 
conservation  which  confronts  the  religion  of 
the  future ;  and  this  work,  if  it  be  undertaken 
with  open  minds  and  genuine  faith,  may  ex- 
pand and  refresh  the  work  of  the  Christian 
religion,  as  some  great  work  of  irrigation  in 
the  West  lets  loose  the  refreshing  water  upon 
a  desert  and  makes  it  wave  with  an  unim- 
agined  harvest. 

To  what  conclusion,  then,  are  we  led  as 
we  trace  this  waste  of  power,  in  forests  and 
in  faiths,  in  the  material  and  spiritual  life  of 
man  ?  The  first  impression  one  must  receive 
is  that  of  grave  disappointment  and  disillu- 
sion. The  pride  one  may  have  had  in  his  sci- 
16 


&tmfcap  ©bentnfffi  in  t(je  College  C&apel 

ence,  his  education,  or  his  religion  becomes 
supplanted  by  self-reproach.  The  opportuni- 
ties put  into  one's  hands  have  not  been  half 
used.  Precious  waste-products  have  been  neg- 
lected or  even  unknown.  The  resources  of 
life  have  been  met  by  ignorance  or  stupidity. 
Yet,  not  less  reasonably,  this  consciousness 
of  a  vast  volume  of  unutilized  power  may  jus- 
tify, both  in  individuals  and  in  society,  a  new 
and  reasonable  hope.  If  it  be  true  that  the 
resources  of  human  character  are  not  half 
employed ;  if  many  a  life,  which  fancies  it- 
self irretrievably  condemned  to  routine  and 
commonplace,  has  in  it  the  capacity  for  lead- 
ership and  heroism  ;  if  the  springs  of  human 
efficiency  have  as  yet  hardly  been  tapped ; 
if  religion  has  been  cultivated  as  an  exotic,  in- 
door plant,  instead  of  being  sown  broadly  in 
the  soil  of  modern  life  with  the  confident  faith 
that  its  field  is  the  world  ;  —  then  the  time 
that  is  coming,  when  these  waste-products 
shall  be  set  to  work  and  the  meagre  use  of 
great  possessions  supplanted  by  the  conserva- 
tion of  spiritual  energy,  may  be  great  days 
both  for  the  world  and  for  the  Church.  To 
discover  in  one's  life  that  which  it  was  meant 
to  be ;  to  rescue  it  from  inefficiency  and  save 
*7 


&tmfcap  ©toemnas  in  t&e  College  Cljapel 

it  for  others'  sakes  ;  to  set  people  at  work  to 
save  the  world  instead  of  expecting  to  have  it 
saved  by  the  machinery  of  State  or  Church ; 
to  view  the  religious  life  not  as  a  technical 
and  dogmatic  possession,  but  as  a  rational  and 
human  redemption,  — that  is  the  task  of  spir- 
itual conservation  which  is  committed  to  the 
present  generation  to  perform.  It  is  like  the 
miracle  of  the  grain,  when  the  soil  which  has 
produced  a  scanty  crop  responds  to  science 
and  industry,  and  surprises  its  owner  with  a 
marvellously  abundant  harvest.  It  is  like  the 
miracle  which  the  Gospel  reports  of  the  feed- 
ing of  the  multitude.  The  people  were  hun- 
gry, and  what  was  the  food  they  had  among 
so  many  !  But  the  Master  takes  the  little  and 
makes  it  much.  Out  of  what  seems  a  morsel 
he  creates  a  meal ;  across  the  centuries  he 
speaks  again  to  many  a  self-distrustful,  hesi- 
tating, half-utilized  modern  life :  "  Gather  up 
the  fragments  that  remain,  that  nothing  be 
lost "  ;  and  as  the  fragments  of  truth  or  duty 
are  gathered  up  and  freely  offered  for  the 
service  of  men,  a  multitude  may  be  fed  by 
what  seemed  not  enough  for  one. 


t8 


II 

THE  REVEALING  OF  THE  HEART1 

That  the  thoughts  of  many  hearts  may  be  revealed.  — 
Luke  u,  35. 

*$ HIS  is  the  prophecy  of  the  aged  Sim- 
eon as  he  stands  in  the  Temple,  a  few 
days  after  the  birth  of  Jesus,  holding 
the  baby  in  his  arms.  There  is  hardly  any 
more  beautiful  scene  in  history.  The  old 
man  has  been  waiting  for  the  consolation 
of  Israel;  he  is  a  just  and  devout  man;  the 
Holy  Ghost  is  upon  him;  and  now  in  his 
old  age  he  is  permitted  to  see  the  hope  of 
his  nation  fulfilled.  The  lingering  past  holds 
the  new-born  future  in  his  arms,  and  the  old 
man  sings  :  u  Now  lettest  thou  thy  servant 
depart  in  peace,  ...  for  mine  eyes  have 
seen  thy  salvation."  Then,  still  holding  the 
child  high  before  the  people,  the  old  man  goes 
on  to  tell  what  is  to  happen,  now  that  this 
boy  is  born.  He  "  is  set,"  says  Simeon,  "  for 

1  Cf.  Mornings  in  the  College  Chapel,  First  Series,  p.  78. 
19 


Smirtap  Ctoetiinffg  m  t&e  College  C&apel 

the  fall  and  rising  again  of  many  in  Israel  "  ; 
and  we  remember  how  soon  it  came  to  pass 
that  fishermen  rose  to  be  apostles,  and  Phari- 
sees fell  under  the  judgment  of  Christ.  He 
is  to  be  a  sign,  goes  on  Simeon,  "  which  shall 
be  spoken  against "  ;  and  we  remember  how 
soon  it  happened  that  the  way  of  Jesus  was 
beset  by  misinterpretation,  slander,  and  shame. 
Then,  finally,  and  with  a  still  finer  instinct, 
old  Simeon  prophesies  that,  as  the  last  sign 
of  the  Messiahship  of  Jesus,  "  the  thoughts 
of  many  hearts  may  be  revealed."  People, 
that  is  to  say,  who  should  come  into  relation 
with  Jesus  would  not  only  learn  many  and 
wonderful  thoughts  out  of  his  heart,  but 
they  would  also  have  revealed  unto  them- 
selves the  thoughts  of  their  own  hearts  ;  and 
he,  on  his  side,  would  not  only  understand 
these  thoughts  of  other  hearts,  but  he  would  en- 
able people  to  understand  their  own  thoughts, 
and  would  reveal  to  them  the  self  which 
lay  within  themselves.  The  gift  of  Jesus  to 
many  a  life  was  to  be,  not  only  a  revealing 
of  the  mysteries  of  God,  but  a  revealing  of 
one's  own  spiritual  capacity,  a  consciousness 
of  one's  power,  a  renewal  of  one's  self-respect, 
the  discovery  that  within  one's  heart  lay 
20 


Smn&ap  (Ktoentngs  in  tlje  ColUje  C&apel 

thoughts  which  were  better  than  one  had 
ever  dreamed  were  there. 

So  stands  the  man  of  the  old  order  look- 
ing into  the  promise  of  the  new;  and  few 
things  are  more  wonderful  in  the  story  of 
Jesus  than  the  way  in  which  this  prophecy  of 
Simeon  soon  came  to  be  fulfilled.  One  after 
another  the  people  of  the  New  Testament 
come  into  the  presence  of  Jesus,  some  of  them 
sympathizers,  some  enemies,  some  puzzled, 
some  impetuous,  some  neutral,  some  timid  ;  and 
to  many  of  the  questions  which  they  ask  of 
him  they  get  no  satisfying  reply.  They  often 
remain  bewildered  about  the  relation  of  Christ 
to  his  Father  and  the  mission  of  Christ  to  the 
world.  Yet,  as  they  pass  out  of  his  presence, 
one  thing  has  been  revealed  which  was  per- 
haps the  last  thing  they  had  expected.  It  is 
the  thoughts  of  their  own  hearts.  They  have 
had  themselves  disclosed  to  themselves  ;  and 
their  interior  characters,  motives,  capacities, 
and  sins,  which  had  been  hitherto  only  half  un- 
derstood even  by  themselves,  are  clarified,  in- 
terpreted, and  illuminated  by  their  intercourse 
with  Jesus  Christ. 

Here,  for  instance,  comes  Nathanael,  doubt- 
ful, wary,  asking,  "  Can  there  any  good  thing 

21 


gmntoap  ©toeninps  in  t&e  College  Cfcapel 

come  out  of  Nazareth  ? "  and  Jesus  looks  on 
him  and  through  him,  and  reading  his  char- 
acter—  faithful,  pure,  fit  for  discipleship  — 
says  of  him,  "  Behold  an  Israelite  indeed,  in 
whom  there  is  no  guile  !"  and  Nathanael,  who 
fancied  that  he  was  observing  and  judging 
Jesus,  is  turned  back  upon  himself,  and  says, 
"Whence  knowest  thou  me?"  Then  Peter 
comes,  inconstant,  wavering,  more  like  shift- 
ing sand  than  solid  rock,  and  Jesus  looks 
through  him  also,  and,  beneath  all  the  blunders 
he  is  to  make,  and  the  self-reproach  which  is 
to  be  his,  perceives  the  underlying  capacity  for 
ultimate  leadership,  and  says  of  him,  fickle  and 
impetuous  as  he  seems  to  himself,  "Thoushalt 
be  called  a  rock."  Then  Pilate  comes,  wary, 
sagacious,  anxious  to  be  unentangled  in  the 
case  of  Jesus,  and  his  temporizing,  worldly 
wisdom  is  laid  bare  at  a  stroke  as  Jesus  says, 
"Thou  sayest  that  I  am  a  king,"  and  instead 
of  judging  Jesus,  Pilate  is  judged  and  con- 
demned. So  they  come,  and  so  they  pass :  the 
woman  of  Samaria,  touched  with  a  wonder  she 
had  not  thought  was  hers  to  feel :  the  woman 
who  was  a  sinner,  recalled  to  the  virtue  she  had 
thought  was  lost.  It  is  as  though  these  figures 
came  up  out  of  the  shadow  and  passed  before 


Smntoap  (Btoentnpi  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

the  penetrating  rays  of  the  person  of  Jesus, 
and  he  shone  on  them  for  a  moment  and  re- 
vealed to  them  a  self  within  themselves,  and 
they  passed  on  with  a  sense  of  significance 
and  power  given  to  their  obscure  and  insignifi- 
cant lives. 

Such  was  the  extraordinary  fulfilment  of 
the  old  man's  prophecy,  and  it  remains  a  pro- 
mise which  gives  courage  and  hope  to  many  a 
modern  life.  This  is  a  wonderful  time  and  a 
wonderful  America  in  which  it  is  our  privilege 
to  live :  a  time,  we  are  told,  of  the  greatest 
diffusion  of  general  prosperity  recorded  in  the 
history  of  the  world  ;  a  time  of  quite  unpre- 
cedented transformations  in  industry,  and  of 
amazing  increase  in  productiveness  and  power. 
Never  before  was  the  world  so  highly  organ- 
ized or  so  mechanically  perfect ;  and  yet  out 
of  this  aggregated  life  there  issues  one  new 
peril,  which  threatens  to  rob  all  these  gains  of 
half  their  glory.  It  is  the  peril  of  a  suppressed 
and  undiscovered  personality,  the  merging  of 
the  individual  in  the  movement  of  the  mass, 
the  risk  that  in  this  vast  organization  of  effi- 
ciency the  thoughts  of  many  hearts  shall  re- 
main quite  unrevealed. 

Here  is  this  mighty  movement  of  industrial 
23 


gmnfcap  (EtoenuiffB  in  tjje  College  C&apel 

and  political  life,  with  its  huge  aggregation  of 
material  forces  and  of  masses  of  men  ;  but  in 
this  complicated  mechanism  of  the  modern 
world,  where  is  the  place  for  the  individual 
soul?  What  is  it  but  one  part  of  the  great 
machine,  one  little  wheel  interlocking  and 
revolving  with  the  rest  ?  A  workman,  a  clerk, 
a  factory  hand,  a  teacher,  a  scholar,  looks  at 
his  life,  so  fragmentary,  so  mechanical,  so 
impersonal,  and  cries  out :  "  Why  should  I 
have  any  thought  in  my  heart  ?  Why  should  I 
have  any  heart  ?  What  am  I  but  one  shuttle 
in  the  great  mill  of  modern  life  as  it  weaves 
the  rich  product  of  the  modern  time  ? "  I 
stood  once  by  the  death-  bedof  such  a  man 
—  a  clerk  in  avast  establishment  —  and  we 
talked  together  of  the  death  that  seemed  ap- 
proaching, and  the  man  looked  up  into  my 
face  out  of  his  sad  experience  of  a  de-per- 
sonalized and  mechanical  life  and  said,  "Sir,  I 
have  been  dead  and  buried  for  twenty  years." 
That  is  the  seamy  side  of  our  material  develop- 
ment. It  is  what  the  economists  call  the  "cost 
of  progress,"  or  the  "anonymousness  of  in- 
dustry," where  a  human  life,  instead  of  having 
revealed  to  it  the  thoughts  of  its  own  heart,  is 
simply  one  more  cog  in  the  great  machine. 
24 


§>tmtoap  (frjeniitfffi  in  the  College  Chapel 

"  Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  I  linger  on 

the  shore, 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more  and 

more." 

When  one  turns  to  the  other  end  of  life, 
from  its  work  to  its  play,  from  the  routine  of 
industrial  life  to  the  routine  of  social  life,  is  it 
not  much  the  same  ?  How  mechanical,  formal, 
oppressive,  unreal,  it  often  seems !  What  is  it 
that  brings  to  many  a  young  man  or  woman  a 
great  sense  of  recoil  from  the  habits  and  de- 
mands of  modern  life,  its  conventionalism,  its 
uniformity,  its  incessant  round  of  social  obli- 
gations and  routine  ?  It  is  the  same  fear  that 
the  thoughts  of  one's  own  heart  may  be 
crushed  by  the  weight  of  the  mass,  so  that 
personality,  individuality,  originality,  liberty, 
life  itself,  may  be  lost.  The  very  slang  of  the 
day  exhibits  the  social  world  as  an  aggregate 
and  impersonal  movement,  in  which  the  indi- 
vidual sinks.  One  person  says  that  he  "keeps 
up  with  the  procession,"  as  though  the  prob- 
lem of  his  life  were  that  of  a  little  boy  who 
keeps  step  with  the  band ;  another  person 
says  that  he  is  "in  the  swim,"  as  though  he 
were  a  kind  of  conscious  chip  in  the  middle 
of  a  resistless  current ;  and  out  of  all  this 

25 


Stmtoap  (Sftjemiiffs  in  t&e  College  Cfjapel 

submerging  civilization  many  a  young  life  lifts 
itself  up  and  cries  :  "  Oh,  to  be  myself  !  Oh, 
to  be  taken  out  of  this  stream  of  things  and 
to  find  a  place  where  I  may  stand  on  my  feet ! 
What  shall  it  profit  me  if  I  gain  all  the  world 
and  lose  my  own  soul  ?  Somehow,  somewhere, 
Oh  world  in  which  I  seem  irrevocably  set,  re- 
veal to  me  the  thoughts  of  my  own  heart ! " 

What  is  it,  then,  which  can  rescue  such  lives 
as  these  ?  It  is  a  revival  of  moral  courage,  a 
renewed  sense  of  capacity,  a  restoration  of 
faith  in  their  own  thoughts.  They  may  de- 
serve the  rebuking  of  mistakes,  but  they  need 
much  more  the  fortifying  of  self-respect. 
They  have  a  conviction  of  sin,  but  they  lack  a 
conviction  of  power.  A  great  flood  of  con- 
ventionalism and  conformity  has  swept  over 
the  modern  world,  and  bears  on  its  crest  a 
wave  of  personal  discouragement  and  impo- 
tency,  until  many  a  life  finds  itself  almost 
drowned  beneath  the  choking  pressure  of  the 
world's  work  or  the  paralyzing  ennui  of  the 
world's  play ;  and  the  recovery  of  faith,  not  in 
God  or  in  Christ  alone,  but  in  one's  self,  the 
rescue  of  the  life  from  the  things  that  crush 
the  life,  becomes  the  elementary  desire  and 
prayer  of  many  a  modern  soul. 
26 


^untoap  CtirnmsD  in  tbc  CoUc^c  Cbaprt 

Now,  to  people  living  thus  in  an  age  of  ma- 
chinery, to  people  thus  swept  along  by  the 
swift  stream  of  living  yet  thirsty  for  the  wa- 
ter of  life,  there  comes  this  first  message  of 
the  religion  of  Jesus  Christ.  The  Christian 
religion  begins  with  one  great  assumption  — 
that  human  beings  are  children  of  God;  that 
neither  dulness  nor  hardness  nor  lack  of  op- 
portunity altogether  robs  one  of  the  right  to 
be  good  and  to  do  good ;  that  this  is  what 
people  are  made  for ;  that  when  any  child  of 
God,  even  in  a  far  country  of  sin  and  shame, 
turns  to  the  Father,  then,  as  was  said  of  the 
Prodigal,  "  he  comes  to  himself  "  ;  that  it  was 
not  his  true  self  which  had  wandered  away, 
but  that  he  had  wandered  away  from  his  true 
self;  that  the  thoughts  of  one's  own  heart 
which  call  one  to  his  best  are  the  call  of  God 
to  the  inheritance  which  all  the  time  belonged 
to  the  child.  Believing  all  this,  Jesus  believed 
in  people  just  as  they  were.  He  believed  in 
them  even  when  they  did  not  believe  in  them- 
selves. He  believed  in  Peter,  though  Peter 
denied  him ;  he  believed  in  Thomas,  though 
Thomas  doubted  him  ;  he  discerned  the  po- 
tential capacity  of  men  before  they  had  re- 
cognized it  themselves.  He  took  them  just  as 
27 


Smitfrap  (Ebeninffs  tn  t&e  College  Chapel 

they  were,  and  through  his  faith  in  them 
created  in  them  the  character  which  they  had 
not  supposed  they  could  assume,  until  the 
secrets  which  were  hidden  from  them  in  their 
own  hearts  were  through  his  faith  in  them 
finally  revealed.  It  was  a  pedagogical  instinct 
in  Jesus.  He  had  the  mind  of  the  born 
teacher.  He  knew  that  little  can  be  got  out 
of  a  life  by  a  teacher  except  by  the  teacher's 
faith  that  each  life  is  made  for  something,  and 
that  to  draw  out  the  Divine  intention  for  that 
life  is  the  teacher's  task  and  joy.  That,  in- 
deed, is  what  millions  of  people  have  meant 
by  being  saved  by  Jesus  Christ.  It  is  not 
that  they  have  been  saved  from  torment,  or 
saved  from  themselves,  but  that  they  have 
been  saved  to  themselves,  so  that  the  possi- 
bilities of  their  own  nature  have  been  revealed 
to  them,  and  the  thoughts  of  their  own  hearts 
which  they  had  lost  have  been  found. 

I  was  reading  a  while  ago  a  little  book  in 
which  the  author  told  the  story  of  his  own  life, 
and  in  the  preface  he  had  written  :  "This  is  a 
book  with  but  one  intention  —  that  in  being 
read,  it  may  read  you."  That  is  what  might  be 
said  of  the  influence  of  the  Gospels.  They  are 
the  story  of  a  life ;  but,  in  being  read,  they  read 
28 


gmnHap  (Ktoenrnps  in  t&e  College  Cfcapel 

you.  They  report  to  you,  not  only  the  story  of 
Jesus,  but  the  story  of  your  own  experience. 
It  is  not  only  you  that  find  their  meaning ; 
but,  as  Coleridge  said,  they  "find  you."  In 
his  letter  to  the  Corinthians  the  Apostle  Paul 
tells  the  same  story  in  a  striking  figure.  It  is, 
he  writes,  as  though  the  Christian  were  set  be- 
fore a  wonder-working  mirror,  in  which  was 
reflected  the  glory  of  God.  At  first  the  image 
of  this  glory  dazzles  the  beholder,  and  he  puts 
a  veil  between  it  and  himself ;  but  gradually, 
as  he  looks  again  into  the  mirror,  he  discerns 
his  own  features  reflected  back  to  him,  but 
touched  with  something  of  that  glory  which 
was  itself  too  bright  to  bear,  until  at  last  his 
own  image  is  changed  into  the  image  of  the 
Divine  likeness,  so  that  the  looker-on  becomes 
like  that  on  which  he  looks.  "  Beholding,"  the 
Apostle  says,  "  as  in  a  mirror  the  glory  of  the 
Lord,  we  are  changed  into  the  same  image 
...  by  the  spirit  of  the  Lord."  That,  he 
thinks,  is  what  may  happen  as  one  looks 
steadily  into  the  mirror  of  God.  It  is  not  that 
he  shall  be  all  at  once  made  perfect,  but  that 
by  degrees  the  veil  shall  be  drawn  away  be- 
fore the  magic  glass,  and  he  shall  see  his  im- 
perfect thoughts  touched  with  the  glory  of 
29 


gmnlrap  (Ktoeninfffi  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

God's  intention,  until  that  which  he  is  changes 
before  him  into  that  which  he  prays  to  be,  as 
by  the  spirit  of  the  Lord. 

Here,  then,  is  an  aspect  of  the  religion  of 
Jesus  Christ  which  may  make  a  starting-point 
for  rational  discipleship.  It  is  not  the  whole  of 
his  gospel ;  it  is  not  the  profoundest  part  of 
his  gospel ;  but  it  may  be  the  first  gift  of  his 
religion  to  many  a  timid,  hesitating,  bewild- 
ered man.  When  one  recalls  the  motives  which 
through  the  Christian  centuries  have  oper- 
ated most  strongly  to  stir  the  higher  life, 
they  turn  out,  in  the  main,  to  have  been  two. 
On  the  one  hand  is  the  motive  of  self-re- 
proach, on  the  other  hand  is  the  motive  of 
self-respect.  One  is  the  scorn  of  sin,  the  other 
is  the  desire  for  holiness.  Both  of  these  mo- 
tives have  a  legitimate  part  in  the  creation  of 
the  Christian  character  ;  but  the  first  and  ex- 
pulsive force  which  drives  out  evil  has  had  an 
enormously  greater  place  than  the  second  and 
attractive  force  which  draws  to  good.  The 
first  is  the  cry  of  Paul :  "  Who  shall  deliver 
me  from  the  body  of  this  death  ? "  and  it  has 
been  taken  up  by  teachers  of  religion,  as 
though  the  secret  of  holiness  lay  in  the  con- 
fession of  helplessness.  In  Jesus,  however, 
30 


ISmitfjap  6tocninpi  in  tjje  College  C&apel 

we  hear  for  the  most  part  the  other  note.  He 
too  understands  the  power  of  self-reproach ; 
he  too  welcomes  the  confession,  "  God  be 
merciful  to  me,  a  sinner !  "  ;  but  with  Jesus 
the  sense  of  impotency  is  but  a  step  on  the 
way  to  the  sense  of  strength,  like  a  soldier's 
sudden  sinking  of  heart  when  he  is  summoned 
to  charge.  The  call  of  God,  as  Jesus  heard  it, 
is  the  call  of  a  commander  who  has  faith  in 
his  men ;  the  call  to  courage,  to  advance,  to 
victory.  Jesus  does  not  merely  tell  men  that 
they  are  weak ;  he  makes  them  believe  that 
they  are  strong.  He  bids  them  never  to  be- 
lieve in  less  than  their  own  best.  He  shows 
them  the  way  up  the  heights  they  desire  to 
scale,  and  goes  before  them  on  that  hard 
path,  so  that  they  follow  in  his  steps  where 
they  had  thought  they  could  not  go.  That  is 
the  Christian  method  —  the  renewal  of  cour- 
age by  the  communication  of  power,  the  trans- 
figuration of  life  in  the  mirror  of  God,  so  that 
it  is  changed  by  that  into  which  it  looks. 
Discipleship  brings  with  it  self-discovery.  Re- 
turning to  the  Father  is  coming  to  one's  self. 
The  Christian  life  develops  unsuspected  power. 
Intimacy  with  Jesus  Christ  is  the  revelation 
of  one's  own  heart. 

3* 


SmnUap  ©toenitiffa  in  t|je  College  C&apel 

There  are  many  things  which  people  want 
to  get  from  their  religion  and  which  religion 
does  not  seem  to  bestow.  They  want  to  be 
assured  of  their  future ;  they  want  to  be 
saved  from  their  past ;  they  want  their  present 
made  easier ;  and  all  these  prayers  seem  to 
leave  them  just  about  where  they  were.  The 
old  routine,  the  inexorable  machinery,  still  en- 
virons them,  and  they  begin  to  wonder  what 
their  religious  faith  was  meant  to  do.  One  of 
the  most  striking  facts  in  the  ministry  of  Jesus 
is  that  the  same  business  in  which  his  disciples 
were  engaged  when  he  first  met  them  was 
the  business  in  which  he  left  them  at  the 
end.  They  were  fishermen  tending  their  nets 
at  the  beginning  of  the  Gospel  of  Mat- 
thew, and  they  were  fishermen  still  tend- 
ing their  nets  at  the  end  of  the  Gospel  of 
John.  What,  then,  did  Jesus  do  for  them  ? 
The  old  life,  just  as  it  was,  had  become  to 
them  a  new  life,  because  they  had  discovered 
within  it  a  possible  companionship  with  the 
creative  work  of  God,  so  that  the  same  per- 
sons who  had  cast  their  nets  with  the  dull 
stolidity  of  many  a  modern  fisherman  found 
themselves  called  to  put  forth  into  the  deep 
and  catch  men. 

32 


i&mtfiap  (Eneninp  in  tlje  College  C&apel 

That  is  the  miracle  which  religion  still  waits 
to  perform.  The  work  of  faith  is  not  to  trans- 
form one's  circumstances  or  to  lessen  the  pres- 
sure of  routine,  but  to  disentangle  from  that 
routine  the  thoughts  of  the  heart,  as  the 
fingers  of  Peter  and  Andrew  disentangled 
themselves  from  the  meshes  of  their  nets  as 
they  rose  up  and  followed  Christ.  In  the 
midst  of  the  inevitable  routine  and  detail  of 
the  world  a  life  starts  up  and  says :  "lam 
not  a  cog ;  I  am  not  a  wheel ;  I  am  not  a 
chip ;  I  am  a  child  of  God,  a  partaker  of  the 
Divine  nature,  a  laborer  with  God,  a  joint- 
heir  with  Jesus  Christ."  Then  experience  is 
transformed  from  prose  to  poetry,  and  the 
ideals  of  life  become  its  realities,  and  the  se- 
crets of  the  heart  are  revealed ;  and  as  one 
looks  into  the  magic  mirror  of  God  his  little 
fragmentary,  fruitless  life  is  changed  into 
some  dim  reflection  of  the  glory  of  the 
Lord. 

The  tapestry  weavers  of  Paris,  it  is  said, 
did  their  work  at  the  back  of  the  picture 
which  they  created,  where  they  saw  only 
the  fragments  of  their  task  and  the  loose  ends 
which  were  left  behind;  but  from  time  to 
time  the  workman  might  rise  from  the  corner 
33 


gmtrtap  ^tnm%si  in  t&e  College  C&apei 

where  he  worked  and  go  round  to  the  other 
side  and  see  the  total  picture  in  which  each 
had  his  slight  but  essential  share.  That  is  re- 
ligion —  the  going  round  to  the  other  side 
of  things,  the  seeing  the  whole  of  that  in 
which  one  has  his  fragmentary  part ;  and  that 
is  what  gives  to  life  its  dignity,  patience,  and 
joy.  The  loose  ends  fall  into  their  places  when 
one  sees  the  Master  Craftsman's  plan,  and 
the  thoughts  of  many  hearts  are  at  last  united, 
interpreted,  and  revealed. 


34 


Ill 

WORK  AND  REVELATION 

But  the  servants  which  drew  the  water  knew.  —  John  II,  9. 

HIS  sentence  seems  to  have  slipped 
almost  by  accident  into  the  record. 
It  is  printed  in  our  translation  be- 
tween two  parenthesis  marks,  as  though  it  were 
not  an  essential  part  of  the  story.  The  writer 
seems  to  feel  called  to  explain  how  the  mir- 
acle of  which  he  writes  came  to  be  known. 
The  guests,  he  says,  for  whose  sake  it  hap- 
pened, did  not  notice  that  a  miracle  had  been 
performed.  They  took  the  gift  of  God  and 
thought  it  a  gift  from  man.  "Thou  hast  kept 
the  good  wine  until  now,"  they  said  jestingly 
to  the  bridegroom.  Even  the  ruler  of  the  feast 
"tasted  the  water  that  was  made  wine  and 
knew  not  whence  it  was  :  (but  the  servants 
which  drew  the  water  knew.)"  While  they 
were  doing  the  work  of  the  feast,  they  came  to 
recognize  the  guest  of  the  feast.  They  filled 
the  water  pots  as  he  bade  them,  but  when  they 

35 


Stmttap  ©tienmgs  m  t&e  College  Chapel 

drew  the  water  it  was  wine.  What  began  as 
a  servant's  task  ended  as  a  Divine  revelation. 
They  knew  what  those  whom  they  served  failed 
to  learn.  The  bridegroom's  friends  received 
the  wine,  but  the  bridegroom's  servants  re- 
ceived the  Messiah.  The  guests  departed  as 
ignorant  as  they  came,  but  the  servants  which 
drew  the  water  knew. 

One  should  not  look  for  fanciful  meanings  in 
the  legends  which  soon  gathered  round  the 
early  days  of  the  great  teacher.  Perhaps  the 
writer  meant  no  more  than  to  claim  the  wit- 
ness of  the  servants  for  the  truth  of  the  mir- 
acle. If  any  one  doubted,  let  him  ask  the  ser- 
vants who  did  the  bidding  of  Jesus,  for  they 
had  positive  evidence  that  the  water  had  been 
made  wine.  It  seems  like  the  unsophisticated 
report  of  one  who  fancied,  as  many  fancy  still, 
that  to  be  a  Messiah  one  must  be  a  magician, 
and  that  the  power  to  convert  souls  from  sin 
is  shown  by  the  power  to  convert  water  into 
wine.  Yet,  even  though  the  writer  were  un- 
aware of  any  deeper  meaning  —  and  indeed, 
the  better  if  he  was  unaware  of  it  —  this  in- 
terpolated verse  brings  us  to  the  heart  of  the 
story.  It  was  not,  it  says,  the  partakers  of  the 
feast,  but  the  providers  of  the  feast,  who  re- 
36 


gmntoap  (Ebeninffg  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

cognized  the  miracle.  The  guests  went  their 
way,  and  as  the  work  of  Jesus  broadened  and 
his  fame  went  "  into  all  the  villages  round- 
about," it  was  perhaps  these  friends  of  his 
youth  who  said :  "  How  can  this  be  the  Mes- 
siah ?  Did  we  not  sit  with  him  at  the  wedding 
in  Cana,  where  the  wine  was  good  ?  Search 
and  see,  for  out  of  Nazareth  cometh  no  pro- 
phet" ;  "And  every  man  went  to  his  own 
house."  But  behind  the  careless  company  in 
this  pleasant  picture  of  a  village  festival  stand 
always  these  figures  of  the  servants  at  their 
work,  their  bodies  bending  to  serve  the  tables, 
but  their  faces  aglow  with  the  surprise  of  rev- 
elation. Knowledge  had  come  to  them  through 
service.  Their  task  had  become  their  teacher. 
In  the  doing  of  their  work  their  eyes  were 
opened  to  the  truth  which  others  could  not 
see.  Those  who  received  the  wine  might  doubt 
or  deny;  but  the  servants  which  drew  the 
water  knew. 

However,  then,  one  may  regard  the  histor- 
ical testimony  to  this  early  tradition  of  the 
youth  of  Jesus,  or  however  little  the  miracle 
itself  may  seem  to  teach  of  his  spiritual  mis- 
sion, this  incidental  allusion  announces  a  law 
of  experience,  which  is  as  plain  in  its  opera- 

37 


J&mtirap  ©toenitifffli  in  tfce  College  C&apel 

tion  to-day  as  it  was  in  Cana  of  Galilee.  We 
must  not  misread  the  teaching.  It  does  not 
merely  set  the  workers  of  the  world  over 
against  the  idlers,  commending  work  and  re- 
buking pleasure.  Jesus,  it  must  be  remembered, 
was  himself  one  of  the  wedding  guests.  He 
was  no  ascetic,  preaching  like  John  the  Bap- 
tist a  stern  message  of  self-abnegation.  He 
shared  the  joys  and  welcomed  the  happiness  of 
human  life.  John  came,  it  is  written,  "neither 
eating  nor  drinking  "  ;  but  of  Jesus  it  was  said, 
"  Behold  a  gluttonous  man  and  a  wine-bibber, 
the  friend  of  publicans  and  sinners."  The  king- 
dom of  heaven  was  to  him  a  glad  and  happy 
hope ;  its  coming  was  like  the  celebration  of  a 
great  feast,  like  the  marriage  of  a  king's  son, 
like  a  march  of  maidens  to  meet  the  bride- 
groom. It  is  not,  that  is  to  say,  a  sign  of  the 
Christian  character  to  be  always  at  work,  like 
a  servant  at  his  task ;  or  to  find  in  relaxation 
and  recreation  a  temptation  or  a  sin.  One  of 
the  most  convincing  aspects  of  the  teaching 
of  Jesus  is  the  healthy-minded  sympathy  with 
which  he  welcomes  the  normal  pleasures  of 
life.  "These  things  have  I  spoken  unto  you," 
he  says,  "  that  my  joy  might  remain  with  you, 
and  that  your  joy  might  be  full." 

38 


&tmtiap  CbemnffB  in  tbe  College  € bapel 

Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  the  teaching  of 
Jesus  dwells  with  a  steady  emphasis  on  the  re- 
ligious significance  of  common  daily  work.  No 
contrast  between  the  tradition  of  Rome  and 
the  religion  which  was  to  conquer  Rome  is 
more  striking  than  this.  To  a  Roman,  work  was 
a  task  for  slaves,  and  idleness  a  privilege  of  the 
free-born.  Work  was  degrading,  compulsory, 
despised.  A  Roman  citizen  spent  his  days  at 
the  Forum,  the  baths,  or  the  games  ;  not  at 
the  shop,  the  forge,  or  the  bench.  When  the 
Apostle  Paul  was  writing  to  young  Timothy 
of  Christian  duty,  the  very  words  he  used 
must  have  carried  to  a  Roman  ear  the  thought 
of  servitude.  "Study  to  show  thyself,"  he  said, 
"a  workman  that  needeth  not  to  be  ashamed" 
{pperarius  non  embescendus).  A  Roman  would 
have  changed  the  advice  to  read :  "  Study  to 
avoid  the  shame  of  being  a  workman.  Prove 
thyself  free-born  by  emancipation  from  the 
slavery  of  work."  This  was  one  of  the  charac- 
teristics of  the  new  religion  which  made  it 
most  difficult  for  the  Roman  aristocracy  to 
accept.  It  was  not  only  a  theological  innova- 
tion ;  it  was  a  social  revolution.  It  reversed 
the  old  order  of  values  and  seemed  made  for 
slaves  rather  than  for  nobles.  As  was  said  of 

39 


Smnfcap  <2£toemng0  in  tfce  College  Chapel 

it  in  Thessalonica,  it  "  turned  the  world  upside 
down." 

Thus  it  happened  that  the  beginnings  of 
Christianity  were  among  plain  working-people, 
doing  the  common  tasks  of  a  working  world. 
Jesus  himself,  in  his  home,  his  training,  and 
his  companionships,  belonged  neither  among 
the  luxurious  rich  nor,  as  is  now  sometimes 
said,  among  the  outcasts  and  destitute,  but 
among  plain  working-people,  such  as  carpenters 
and  fishermen.  The  Apostle  Paul  abode  with 
Aquila  and  Priscilla,  "  because  he  was  of  the 
same  craft ...  for  by  their  occupation  they  were 
tent-makers."  From  this  social  environment 
Jesus  drew  his  parables  of  the  kingdom.  The 
people  whom  he  accepted  as  types  of  disciple- 
ship  were  working-people,  doing  their  ordinary 
tasks.  The  porter  at  the  gate,  the  watchman 
on  his  tower,  the  sower  in  the  field,  the  ser- 
vants guarding  their  lord's  money,  the  woman 
sweeping  her  house,  —  these,  and  such  as 
these,  seemed  to  him  ready  for  their  Master's 
coming  ;  and  ever  since  these  parables  were 
spoken,  and  however  alienated  from  the  Chris- 
tian Church  the  workers  of  the  world  may 
have  been,  the  teaching  of  Jesus  has  been 
welcomed  among  them  because  it  speaks  the 
40 


Stmto?  Ctientngs  in  t&e  College  Chapel 

language  and  honors  the  motives  of  humble, 
honest,  daily  work. 

That,  however,  is  not  the  whole  teaching 
of  the  servants  at  Cana.  They  are  not  merely 
commended  as  workers,  but  are  made  the  in- 
struments of  revelation,  the  witnesses  of  the 
miracle,  the  discoverers  of  the  Divine.  Had 
they  not  been  at  their  work,  the  Master  might 
have  had  no  welcome.  None  but  the  servants 
knew  that  it  was  he,  and  nothing  but  their 
work  gave  them  their  knowledge.  There  is, 
in  other  words,  a  peculiar  connection  between 
work  and  insight,  between  fidelity  and  faith, 
between  doing  and  knowing,  which  none  but 
the  workers  of  the  world  discover,  and  which 
is  the  final  justification  and  redemption  of  the 
work  one  has  to  do. 

If  that  be  true,  it  is  good  news  for  the 
world.  For  the  common  view  of  one's  work, 
even  if  it  be  not  the  Roman  view  of  contempt, 
is  at  least  an  impression  that  work,  in  its  very 
nature,  is  restrictive  and  repressive,  a  kind  of 
penal  discipline,  an  enslaving  of  the  spirit,  a 
thing  to  be  done  and  have  over  with  if  the 
higher  life  is  to  be  attained.  To  learn  one's 
lessons  and  to  be  free  from  them ;  to  finish 
one's  work  and  then  to  have  liberty  and  leis- 
41 


Smtitoap  (£bemnff0  in  t(jc  College  Cbapel 

ure ;  to  work  one's  way  out  of  work  and  then 
to  sit  as  a  guest  at  the  feast  of  life  while  oth- 
ers serve  its  tables,  —  that  may  be  safely  said 
to  represent  the  ambition  of  the  great  major- 
ity of  workers.  And  it  is,  of  course,  true  that 
much  of  the  routine  and  drudgery  of  work  is 
very  hard  to  idealize ;  that  much  of  modern 
industry  converts  a  human  being  into  a  part 
of  a  great  machine ;  that  the  making  of  a  liv- 
ing may  easily  be  mistaken  for  the  making  of 
a  life.  Yet,  in  spite  of  all  these  perils  which 
beset  almost  every  kind  of  work,  there  re- 
mains, in  the  experience  of  a  great  many  busy 
people,  one  surprising  discovery,  which  re- 
deems life  from  discouragement  or  despair. 
It  is  the  discovery  that  the  influences  which 
are  most  permanent  and  effective  for  the 
guidance  of  life  are  met,  not  as  one  escapes 
from  his  work,  but  as  he  does  his  work ;  that 
insight,  self-mastery,  the  total  view  of  duty 
which  makes  one's  real  creed,  are,  in  the  main, 
the  products  of  one's  habitual  fidelity  or  indif- 
ference to  his  daily  task,  the  outcome  of  work 
despised  or  of  work  well  done. 

The  moment  one  recalls  how  life  is  neces- 
sarily spent  it  becomes  evident  that  this  must 
be  true.  Three  fourths  of  one's  waking  hours 
42 


gmnUap  <Bncning;0  in  tlje  College  Cfoapel 

for  six  days  in  the  week  are  given  to  work ; 
and  a  minute  fraction  of  the  rest, — an  hour 
on  Sunday,  a  moment  of  prayer,  an  occasional 
half-hour  with  a  book  or  on  some  solitary  and 
pensive  walk,  may  be  given  to  one's  faith 
or  worship  or  creed.  Is  it  probable  that  the 
thoughts  and  ideals  thus  hastily  seized  can 
compare  in  formative  effect  with  the  continu- 
ous pressure  and  hardening  mould  of  the  un- 
conscious hours  ?  It  is  easy  to  deceive  oneself 
here  and  to  fancy  that  a  moment  of  passionate 
feeling,  or  an  occasional  flash  of  interest,  may 
dominate  one's  work;  and  such  abrupt  trans- 
formations do  indeed  occur.  But  it  is  much 
more  likely  that  the  practice  and  principles  of 
one's  daily  work  are  shaping  one's  real  creed 
of  hope  or  distrust,  of  faith  or  despair,  and  that 
the  brief  hours  of  exaltation  or  of  peace  are 
the  luxuries,  rather  than  the  necessities,  of 
life.  Recreation  and  relaxation  have  their  part 
in  any  rational  life,  but  the  practical  creed 
which  governs  our  fundamental  decisions  is 
for  the  most  part  the  slow  and  often  uncon- 
scious consequence  of  the  habitual  conduct 
of  our  daily  affairs.  The  wedding  guests  got 
what  they  came  for,  — good  company  and  good 
wine  ;  but  the  servants,  doing  their  daily  busi- 

43 


Stmfca?  Ctoeningg  in  tljc  College  Chapel 

ness,  found  the  Messiah,  and  knew  that  it  was 
he. 

Let  us  trace  this  principle  a  little  way  into 
our  modern  life.  The  entire  structure  of  edu- 
cation, for  example,  is  built  on  this  faith  in 
work  as  revelation.  Education  is  not  infor- 
mation. To  be  educated  is  not  to  be  ad- 
mitted to  a  feast  of  knowledge  or  to  partake 
of  its  attractive  fare.  A  young  person  is  not 
educated  when  he  has  acquired  a  large  amount 
of  undigested  facts.  An  educated  man  is  not 
a  walking  encyclopedia.  Education,  as  the 
word  suggests,  is  the  drawing  out  of  the  per- 
son educated.  Out  from  within  a  little  animal 
is  drawn  by  wise  education  a  human  mind 
capable  of  self-direction  and  self -scrutiny.  The 
first  principle  of  a  modern  education  is  to  dis- 
cover this  person  and  wake  him  up,  to  kindle 
initiative,  to  make  things  interesting,  to  per- 
suade the  mind  to  grow.  One  such  impulse 
felt,  one  response  of  the  mind  to  truth,  how- 
ever crude  or  casual  it  may  be,  is  worth  a 
hundred  facts.  The  little  child  is  set  to  form 
his  own  combination  of  numbers  or  shapes, 
the  growing  boy  makes  his  own  crude  little 
experiments  in  poetry  or  fart,  the  student 
at  the  university   works  in  his  laboratories 


Smn&ap  <Ebcnmg;s  in  tbc  College  Cbapel 

and  at  his  elective  studies,  —  and  all  alike 
are  embarked  in  the  great  enterprise  of  self- 
discovery,  which,  whatever  other  issue  it 
may  have,  in  knowledge  or  skill,  has  as  its 
ultimate  aim  the  creation  of  an  educated 
mind. 

Thus  it  may  happen  that  the  years  intended 
to  be  those  of  education  may  be  years  of  disas- 
trous waste.  A  youth  may  devote  his  time  and 
ingenuity,  not  to  the  problem  of  studying,  but 
to  the  more  difficult  problem  of  evading  study; 
not  to  doing  his  work,  but  to  escaping  the  do- 
ing of  it.  He  wants  to  sit  at  the  feast  of  edu- 
cation without  drawing  the  water  of  education. 
Nor  is  this  pleasant,  irresponsible  experience 
without  its  reward.  Much  happiness  is  to 
be  found  in  the  years  appropriated  to  educa- 
tion by  those  who  make  them  years  of  play. 
They  have  precisely  the  pleasure  which  any 
guest  may  receive  at  an  abundant  feast.  What, 
then,  is  it  which  the  indolent  and  indifferent 
lose?  It  is  a  more  permanent  and  a  more  sub- 
tle loss  than  at  first  appears,  —  the  loss  of  ed- 
ucation itself.  The  children  in  a  New  York 
public  school  were  set  one  day  to  write  their 
answer  to  the  question  :  "  What  is  the  differ- 
ence between  an  educated  man  and  an  intelli- 

45 


^mntoap  ©tieninp  m  t()e  College  C&apel 

gent  man  ?"  and  one  little  Polish  girl  replied  : 
"  An  educated  man  gets  his '  thinks '  from  some 
one  else ;  an  intelligent  man  '  works  his  own 
thinks.' "  Now  the  fundamental  aim  of  mod- 
ern education  is  to  abolish  this  distinction 
between  an  educated  man  and  an  intelligent 
man ;  to  train  people  not  to  borrow  or  inherit 
their  ideas,  but  to  get  them  for  themselves, 
by  personal  and  continuous  work.  Education 
is  like  athletics.  One  cannot  grow  strong  by 
looking  on  while  other  people  play.  The  mind 
that  is  lazy  grows  soft,  like  the  muscle  that  is 
unused.  Strength  and  efficiency  come  of  exer- 
cise ;  not  by  sitting  on  the  side-lines,  but  by 
playing  the  game.  The  indolent  guests  got 
the  wine  and  missed  the  miracle,  but  the  busy 
servants,  drawing  the  water,  knew. 

The  same  revelation  through  work  may  be 
observed  in  those  larger  social  movements 
which  make  up  what  we  call  the  Labor  Ques- 
tion, and  which  concern  most  intimately  what 
we  describe  as  the  working-classes.  What  is 
the  most  alarming  symptom  of  the  present 
industrial  situation?  It  is  not,  as  is  often  im- 
agined, the  conflict  of  wage-earners  and  em- 
ployers, or  the  issue  between  capital  and  labor; 
for  these,  with  all  their  friction  and  bitterness, 
46 


gmntiap  (Etoeningfl  in  t|je  College  Cljapel 

are  at  least  signs  of  vitality  and  progress.  The 
Labor  Question  is  in  itself  a  sign,  not  of  na- 
tional degeneration,  but  of  national  education. 
It  is  conspicuous,  not  among  the  most  back- 
ward nations,  but  among  the  most  advanced. 
It  meets  a  civilization,  not  on  its  way  down, 
but  on  its  way  up.  It  is  a  part  of  that  cost  of 
progress  which  the  industrial  world  has  to  pay. 
The  most  disquieting  aspect  of  the  situation 
lies  much  deeper.  It  is  the  prevailing  belief, 
to  be  observed  on  both  sides  of  the  conflict, 
that  work  itself  is  intrinsically  evil,  and  that 
happiness  and  liberty  are  to  be  found  by  re- 
stricting or  dodging  work  and  multiplying  the 
chances  of  liberty  and  play.  The  employer 
works  so  that  some  day  he  shall  be  beyond  the 
necessity  of  working ;  and  the  employed,  by 
every  means  of  strategy  or  force,  reduce  the 
amount  and  efficiency  of  the  work  they  are 
compelled  to  do. 

Now,  no  one  can  question  that  much  of  the 
work  of  the  modern  world  needs  redeeming 
from  its  dehumanizing  and  mechanical  forms. 
The  humanization  of  industry  is  the  crying 
problem  of  this  age  of  speed  and  power.  Yet, 
however  threatening  are  the  perils  of  work, 
or  overwork,  or  degrading  work,  it  does  not 

47 


gmtifcap  (Etoemnafi  in  tyt  College  Cfjapel 

follow  that  work  itself  is  to  be  regarded  as  a 
curse.  On  the  contrary,  the  chief  source  of 
self-respect,  self-discipline,  intellectual  power, 
and  moral  growth  is  to  be  found  in  the  work 
one  has  to  do ;  and  whenever  the  impression 
prevails,  either  among  rich  or  poor,  that  work 
is  enslaving  or  degrading,  there,  whether  in 
ancient  Rome  or  in  modern  America,  is  not 
only  social  unrest,  but  moral  decline.  When 
God  drove  Adam  and  Eve  out  of  Paradise 
and  said,  "In  the  sweat  of  thy  face  shalt  thou 
eat  bread,"  the  decree  was  not,  as  some 
theologians  have  described  it,  the  curse  of 
man,  but  his  original  blessing.  "  The  fall  of 
man,"  as  Theodore  Parker  once  said,  "was  a 
fall  upward."  The  first  step  toward  civiliza- 
tion was  taken  when  Adam  began  to  learn 
the  lessons  of  self-mastery  and  foresight, 
which  nothing  but  the  sweat  of  work  could 
teach.  This  is  the  law  of  nature  which  one 
may  see  in  our  day  operating  like  a  Divine 
judgment  among  the  idle  rich.  They  have 
not  only  missed  the  satisfactions  of  work, 
but  they  suffer  also  a  progressive  decline  in 
the  capacity  for  enjoyment.  The  less  they 
have  to  do,  the  more  they  yield  to  exhaustion, 
ennui,  despondency  and  despair.  They  sit  as 
48 


Smntoap  €tjeninff£i  in  t&e  Call^e  C&apel 

guests  at  the  bountiful  table  of  life  and  do 
not  even  enjoy  its  abundance,  while  the  serv- 
ants, doing  the  work  of  life,  testify  what  good 
wine  life  has  to  give. 

And  here,  to  turn  the  matter  round,  is  the 
deeper  meaning  of  the  modern  movement  of 
industrial  education.  To  be  taught  to  work,  to 
learn  a  trade,  to  train  one's  hands,  is  in  one 
aspect  a  form  of  insurance  against  poverty. 
The  chance  of  a  good  workman's  not  finding  a 
job  is  small.  The  great  majority  of  the  unem- 
ployed in  this  country  are  unemployable  be- 
cause untrained.  But  quite  apart  from  this 
economic  result  of  industrial  education  is  the 
moral  effect  of  work  on  character.  As  a  boy 
fits  the  joints  of  boards  with  accuracy  and 
precision,  he  learns,  not  carpentering  only,  but 
honesty,  fidelity,^truthfulness,  and  patience. 
As  a  girl  does  her  household  work  with  pa- 
tience and  skill,  that  work  is  making  her  scru- 
pulous, observant,  obedient,  and  ^refined.  The 
real  significance  of  teaching  the  hands  is  its 
training  of  character.  Self-confidence,  self- 
control,  and  foresight  all  follow  from  work 
well  done.  The  servants  who  drew  the  water 
seemed  assigned  to  a  very  humble  task,  but 
in  the  doing  of  that  task  the  miracle  was 

49 


i&tmtta?  (Stoentngg  in  fyi  College  C&apel 

known,  and  but  for  them  we  might  never  have 
been  talking  of  it  to-day. 

Thus  it  sometimes  happens  that  one  discov- 
ers among  plain  hand-workers  a  kind  of  saga- 
city, insight,  and  accuracy  of  judgment  which 
presents  an  extraordinary  contrast  with  the 
inert  and  unobservant  minds,  not  to  say  the 
stupidity,  of  many  employers  of  labor.  One  of 
the  most  dramatic  aspects  of  the  modern  labor 
movement  is  the  emergence  out  of  the  ranks 
of  very  plain  people,  without  the  advantages 
of  training  or  experience,  of  a  capacity  for 
leadership  and  an  administrative  wisdom  which 
is  quite  a  match  for  the  brains  of  capitalists 
and  financiers.  Blunders,  follies,  and  even 
crimes,  have  no  doubt  blotted  the  history  of 
the  labor  agitation,  as  they  have  the  history 
of  business  corporations,  yet  it  remains  a 
startling  fact  that  out  of  the  experience  of 
wage-earners  themselves,  with  hardly  a  trace 
of  direction  from  above,  there  should  have 
been  created  vast  and  stable  organizations, 
which  must  be  recognized  as  monuments  of 
sagacity,  fraternity,  and  courage.  It  is  the 
effect  of  work  on  intellect  and  character,  the 
discovery  of  power  through  the  doing  of  tasks, 
the  way  of  enlightenment  for  those  who  have 

5° 


&tm&ap  <£tieniiiff0  tn  tlje  College  CJjapcI 

no  privilege  of  study  and  must  make  their  life 
while  they  make  their  living. 

I  heard  some  years  ago  some  interesting 
testimony  on  this  point  at  a  remarkable  con- 
ference in  a  surprising  place.  A  meeting  had 
been  arranged  at  Oxford  of  the  Labor  leaders 
of  England  with  some  of  the  University  circle, 
and  it  occurred  in  the  garden  of  Balliol  Col- 
lege. Never  had  those  gray  walls  and  clinging 
ivies  looked  down  upon  a  stranger  assemblage, 
and  never  were  words  more  appealing  than 
the  plea  of  the  working-men  for  the  better 
education  of  their  sons.  Yet  on  the  other 
hand,  nothing  could  have  been  more  out- 
spoken and  confident  than  the  belief  of  these 
hand-workers  that  there  were  aspects  of  truth 
which  they  could  appreciate  better  than  acad- 
emic minds,  and  ways  of  leadership  which  must 
be  discovered  through  the  experience  of  work. 
Much  might  be  hidden  from  them  of  science 
or  of  art,  but  much  had  been  taught  them  by 
the  necessities  of  their  tasks.  "  It  is  a  daily 
astonishment  to  us  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons," one  of  the  representatives  of  the  wage- 
earners  said,  "to  observe  how  admirably  the 
men  who  have  been  trained  at  Oxford  express 
themselves,  and  at  the  same  time  how  little  of 

5* 


gmnfcap  ©toetutiffs  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

importance  they  often  have  to  say."  These 
men,  in  other  words,  had  learned  how  to  use 
their  own  advantages  instead  of  envying  the 
advantages  of  others ;  and  the  habit  of  work 
had  given  even  to  their  speech  a  compactness, 
cogency,  and — so  to  speak  —  a  workmanlike 
quality,  which  they  missed  in  more  sophisti- 
cated men. 

That  is  one  hopeful  aspect  of  the  labor 
agitation.  With  all  its  turbulence  and  ani- 
mosity, it  has  at  least  stimulated  in  an  amaz- 
ing degree  the  latent  faculties  of  great  num- 
bers of  men,  and  developed  an  administrative 
skill  and  even  an  effective  eloquence,  of  the 
very  existence  of  which  many  of  the  more 
privileged  classes  are  not  yet  aware.  In  fact, 
the  most  immediate  need  of  the  present 
industrial  situation  is  to  add  to  the  education 
of  the  working  people  a  corresponding  educa- 
tion of  the  employing  class,  and  to  match  by 
a  new  quality  of  wisdom  and  sympathy  the 
new  training  which  the  wage-earners,  with 
great  labor  and  many  blunders,  are  getting 
for  themselves.  If  the  fortunate  guests  who 
sit  at  the  feast  of  prosperity  rest  content 
with  the  irresponsible  enjoyment  of  the  good 
wine  of  life  as  it  is  freely  poured  for  them,  it 
52 


gmnUap  €toeiung;fi  in  tfce  College  Cfcapel 

may  come  to  pass  that  the  servants  who  draw 
the  water  will  work  a  miracle  of  self-discovery 
and  self-help  before  their  very  eyes. 

We  come,  then,  to  the  philosophy  of  life 
which  facts  like  these  illustrate.  There  are 
many  paths  which  lead  to  truth.  One  may 
proceed  along  the  way  of  logical  reason- 
ing, where  he  meets  the  philosophers,  the 
men  of  science,  or  the  theologians.  It  is  the 
high  road  of  the  mind,  traveled  by  the  greatest 
thinkers  ;  the  straightest  road,  not  to  be  aban- 
doned or  despised.  But  it  is  not  the  only  way 
to  truth.  Truth  is  not  aristocratic;  sound 
thinking  is  not  a  monopoly  of  the  educated ; 
and  one  reason  why  philosophy  and  theology 
have  lost  their  hold  on  great  numbers  of  minds 
is  because  there  has  been  prescribed  as  the  only 
way  to  truth  a  road  which  only  trained  think- 
ers may  hope  to  go.  Or  again,  one  may  find  his 
way  toward  truth  along  the  road  of  the  imagi- 
nation, where  he  walks  with  the  artists  or  the 
poets.  Vistas  toward  reality  open  through 
the  emotional  life  which  are  infinitely  alluring 
and  revealing.  Beauty,  joy,  sympathy,  love,  — 
all  link  life  with  the  Eternal.  The  spirit 
searcheth  all  things,  yea,  the  deep  things  of 
God.  Yet  this  winding  lane  of  the  imagina- 
53 


S>unliap  (KbemnffB  in  t|>e  College  CJwpel 

tion  is  no  more  the  only  way  to  truth  than  is 
the  turnpike-road  of  logic.  Here  is  the  world- 
old  issue  between  the  mystic  and  the  ration- 
alist, between  feeling  and  reason,  a  parting  of 
ways  where  the  sign-post  points  to  one  road 
straight  over  the  hills,  and  to  another  through 
the  valleys,  but  where  both  roads  lead  to  the 
journey's  end.  And  then,  finally,  there  is  a 
way  to  truth,  less  direct  perhaps  than  the  way 
of  reasoning,  less  charming  than  the  way 
of  feeling,  —  a  rough  road,  it  may  be,  often 
shadeless  and  hot,  —  yet  none  the  less  reach- 
ing its  end,  which  runs  along  the  dusty  path 
of  duty  and  across  the  dry  plains  of  common 
work.  Through  the  routine  of  life  the  will 
takes  up  its  march,  and  as  it  trudges  along, 
footsore  and  weary,  it  lifts  its  eyes,  and  be- 
hold, the  truth  which  seemed  reached  by  other 
paths  is  not  far  away,  and  the  duty-doer  enters 
with  the  thinker  and  the  poet  through  the 
gate  into  the  City.  That  is  the  most  import- 
ant discovery  which  plain  men  and  women, 
necessarily  absorbed  with  the  prosaic  work 
of  education  or  business  or  wage-earning  or 
home-keeping,  can  learn,  —  that  fidelity  to 
one's  task  is  not  only  good  for  its  own  sake, 
but  is  one  of  the   ways  by  which  truth  is 

54 


&tmfiap  ©toeninffa  in  t|>c  College  Cfcapel 

acquired  and  revelation  attained.  There  are 
wonderful  truths  awaiting  both  the  explo- 
ration of  the  reason  and  the  flight  of  the 
imagination,  but  to  many  a  man  these  paths  to 
knowledge  are  simply  barred,  while  straight 
before  his  feet  is  the  work  of  life,  the  voca- 
tion and  obligation  which  seem  to  shut  in 
one's  soul  and  shut  out  one's  vision  ;  yet  as 
one  goes  this  path,  steadily  and  straight,  the 
meaning  of  life  may  open  before  the  eyes  of 
the  will,  and  the  feet  of  duty  may  stand  at 
last  before  the  gate  of  truth. 

And  this,  it  is  well  to  remember,  is  not  only 
a  way  which  experience  may  test,  but  the  way 
also  along  which  Jesus  Christ  led  the  plain 
men  whom  he  had  chosen  for  his  disciples. 
Great  truths  indeed  he  taught  to  the  reason ; 
great  emotions  he  communicated  to  the  heart; 
but  when  he  would  draw  his  followers  most 
directly  to  himself  he  spoke,  first  of  all,  to 
their  wills.  "  Follow  me,"  he  said  ;  *  take  up 
thy  cross  and  follow,  and  the  way  of  service 
may  be  to  thee  the  way  of  revelation."  "  Inas- 
much as  ye  do  it  unto  one  of  these  least,  ye  do 
it  unto  me."  "  He  that  willeth  to  do  the  will 
shall  know  of  the  doctrine."  What  a  comfort- 
ing word  is  that  to  the  great  multitude  of 
55 


gmnfcap  (Kbeningfi  in  t|>e  College  C&apel 

humble  lives  who  do  not  know  much  about 
Christian  theology,  and  have  not  time  to  study 
it,  but  are  willing,  at  the  bench  and  forge, 
in  their  counting-houses  and  offices,  in  their 
shops  and  homes,  to  do  the  Will  as  it  is 
made  plain  to  them.  To  them  it  is  promised 
that  along  this  way,  even  if  by  no  other,  they 
shall  come  to  know  of  the  doctrine.  First  loy- 
alty, fidelity,  service,  and  then  —  some  day  — 
conviction,  assurance,  revelation.  That  is  the 
Christian  method.  The  work  of  the  world  is 
one  way  to  knowledge  of  the  Eternal.  Won- 
derful indeed  is  the  feast  of  opportunity  spread 
before  the  life  of  the  present  age,  great  are  its 
gifts  to  thought  and  rich  its  appeal  to  the  im- 
agination, but  those  who  have  neither  brains 
for  high  thinking  nor  leisure  for  deep  emotion 
may  turn  back  to  the  inevitable  business  of 
their  lives  with  the  assurance  that  they  too 
have  a  share  in  the  revelation  of  God.  For 
them  is  told  once  more  the  story  of  the  serv- 
ants of  the  feast,  and  to  them,  across  the 
centuries,  comes  the  promise  to  the  workers 
of  the  world:  "The  servants  which  drew  the 
water  knew." 


56 


IV 
THE  OPENING  DOORS1 

I  am  the  door.  —  John  x,  7. 

^HERE  are  two  kinds  of  religious  ex- 
perience which  are  so  distinct  from 
each  other  as  to  speak  different  lan- 
guages, and  appeal  to  different  circumstances 
of  age  or  need.  These  two  kinds  of  religion 
have  the  same  source,  but  they  move  in  oppo- 
site directions,  like  two  streams  which  have 
their  springs  on  the  same  mountain  but  flow 
down  different  slopes  to  different  seas.  One 
kind  of  religion  thinks  of  life  as  at  rest ;  the 
other  kind  thinks  of  life  as  in  motion.  One  is 
the  answer  to  the  prayer  for  peace ;  the  other 
is  the  answer  to  the  prayer  for  power.  One  is 
the  religion  of  repose  ;  the  other  is  the  re- 
ligion of  action.  One  is  the  religion  of  age  ; 
the  other  of  youth.  According  to  one,  Jesus 
says :  "  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labor,  and 
I  will  give  you  rest  "  ;  according  to  the  other, 

1  Cf.  Mornings  in  the  College  Chapel,  Second  Series,  p.  4. 

57 


Smntoap  <£toewng;fi  in  t\>t  College  Cfcapel 

he  says  :  u  If  any  man  will  come  after  me, 
let  him  take  up  his  cross  and  follow."  Ac- 
cording to  one,  the  great  word  of  the  New 
Testament  is  the  saying  :  u  I  am  the  Truth  "  ; 
according  to  the  other,  the  most  persuasive 
message  of  Jesus  is  the  saying  :  "I  am  the 
door."  Both  of  these  ways  of  religion  are  real. 
What  many  a  tired  life  desires  is  rest  after 
pain,  relief  from  care,  a  place  of  safety  from 
the  troubles  of  the  world  ;  and  to  such  a  life 
the  peaceful  security  of  a  Christian  faith 
opens  like  a  quiet  harbor  of  refuge  after  anx- 
ious days  of  tossing  storm.  But  there  are 
many  lives  which  do  not  crave  this  sense  of 
security.  On  the  contrary,  the  desire  to  re- 
treat from  life,  the  anxious  search  for  a  harbor, 
is  precisely  what  makes  religion  seem  to  many 
healthy,  happy  lives  uninteresting  and  remote, 
—  appropriate  for  the  weak,  the  discouraged, 
or  the  dying,  but  not  for  the  young,  the  strong, 
and  the  brave.  What  their  lives  want  is  not 
rest,  but  motion  ;  not  idleness,  but  usefulness  ; 
not  a  harbor  of  refuge,  but  the  large  adven- 
tures of  the  open  sea.  You  watch  a  battered 
wreck  as  it  is  towed  into  the  harbor,  and  you 
say,  "  Take  her  to  some  safe  dock,  and  moor 
her  where  no  storm  can  come,  for  she  is  too 
58 


Stmfcap  €toHimg0  in  tbr  College  Cbapel 

weather-beaten  to  leave  port  ";  but  when  you 
see  a  well-built  vessel  standing  out  into  the  bay 
you  say,  "  There  goes  a  craft  which  can  laugh 
at  storms ;  her  mission  is  not  to  rest,  but  to 
move ;  her  captain  asks,  not  a  dock  to  lie  in, 
but  a  course  to  steer  and  a  port  to  reach  some 
day."  It  is  a  picture  of  the  undiscouraged, 
expectant,  normal  human  life,  not  yet  resigned 
to  the  religion  of  age,  but  asking  further  guid- 
ance into  the  unexplored,  the  unrevealed,  the 
perilous  yet  beckoning  unknown.  To  such  a 
life  comes  this  promise,  more  than  once  re- 
peated, and  issuing  from  the  last  hours  of 
the  life  of  Jesus:  "I  am  the  door.  Through  me 
men  enter  into  their  larger  life.  I  am  the  way. 
I  give  the  course  to  steer.  I  open  the  gate  of 
opportunity.  My  gospel  is  not  one  of  peace 
alone,  but  one  of  progress  and  power."  This 
is  the  aspect  of  the  teaching  of  Jesus  to  which 
we  turn  to-day.  It  is  not  the  whole  gospel.  It 
is  not  the  message  of  religion  to  the  tired, 
the  aged,  the  sinners,  or  the  mourners  :  but 
it  is  the  answer  to  the  wholesome,  natural  de- 
sire of  many  an  eager,  questioning,  restless, 
unsatisfied,  hesitating,  self-distrustful,  youth- 
ful life. 

"I  am  the  door!  "  It  is  curious  to  see  how 

59 


SmOrap  (Rijeninffg  in  t|>e  College  C&apel 

often  the  progress  of  life  through  the  succes- 
sive incidents  of  experience  is  like  the  passing 
from  one  room  to  another  of  some  ample  house 
through  a  succession  of  opening  doors.  You 
enter  one  room  and  the  door  closes  behind 
you,  and  there  seems  no  way  out ;  but  while 
you  seem  thus  shut  in,  another  door  unex- 
pectedly opens  before  you,  and  you  go  on  into 
a  larger  room  beyond.  This,  for  instance,  is 
the  story  of  each  step  in  education.  A  child  is 
shut  in  among  the  first  principles  of  his  task, 
and  it  seems  to  him  a  narrow,  restricted, 
penal  experience,  from  which  he  longs  to  be 
set  free.  What  are  these  tiresome  rules  of 
grammar,  he  asks,  these  exercises  of  compo- 
sition, these  preposterous  problems  of  rooms 
to  paper  and  cord-wood  to  measure,  but  parts 
of  a  prison  discipline  ingeniously  devised  to 
repress  the  spirits  of  a  healthy  boy  ?  Is  it  not 
all,  as  one  child  said  of  learning  the  alpha- 
bet, going  through  a  great  deal  to  get  very 
little  ?  Then,  in  some  happy  hour,  under  the 
touch  of  some  real  teacher,  or  through  the 
inspiration  of  some  book  or  thought  or  friend, 
these  abstractions  of  education  become  trans- 
formed into  realities.  A  door  opens  from  this 
unmeaning  discipline  into  significance,  mas- 
60 


^tmUap  €toetimrr£j  in  tfje  College  Cljapel 

tery,  progress ;  and  the  child  looks  through 
that  door  into  the  larger  room  of  usefulness, 
accuracy,  science,  insight,  joy,  to  which  the 
ante-chamber  of  these  unwelcome  tasks  is 
now  seen  to  be  the  only  way. 

The  same  story  may  be  told  of  the  higher 
education.  A  youth  passes  from  the  compul- 
sion of  the  school-room  to  the  liberty  of  the 
university,  and  there  confronts  him  the  per- 
plexing problem  of  the  choice  of  studies.  The 
vast  diversity  of  the  elective  system  lies  before 
him  with  its  confusing  abundance,  and  he  is 
bewildered  by  the  sudden  expansion  of  his  in- 
tellectual life.  When,  however,  he  considers 
more  seriously  the  problem  of  choice,  this 
sense  of  liberty  is  changed  into  a  new  sense 
of  limitation.  What  is  this  increase  of  free- 
dom but  a  new  form  of  compulsion  ?  Liberty 
to  choose  many  subjects  means  necessity  to 
choose  a  few.  Here  and  there  in  the  world  of 
scholarship  are  regions  which  he  may  enter, 
but  there  remains  many  an  alluring  field  of 
study  which  he  cannot  hope  to  explore.  Many 
a  door  must  be  left  unopened,  and  many  an- 
other passed  barely  beyond  the  threshold,  if 
he  v/ould  advance  with  any  confidence  into 
his  special  pursuit.  What  a  shut-in  experience, 
61 


i&tntiiap  ©ijcntnfffi  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

then,  the  liberty  of  the  modern  scholar  comes 
to  be  !  What  has  become  of  that  earlier  tra- 
dition of  a  symmetrical  culture  which  marked 
the  gentleman  of  two  generations  ago,  —  the 
education  which  could  embellish  talk  with 
quotations  from  the  classics,  which  knew 
something  of  many  things  instead  of  every- 
thing of  something  of  which  no  one  else  knew 
even  the  name  ?  How  narrow  seems  the  field 
—  say  rather,  the  rut  —  of  the  modern  stu- 
dent ;  and  with  what  a  sigh  he  abandons  the 
earlier  ideal  of  a  comprehensive  culture  under 
the  compulsion  of  a  specialized  world  ! 

What  is  it,  then,  which  can  restore  self- 
respect  to  modern  scholarship  ?  It  is  the  dis- 
covery that  this  world  of  spacious  learning, 
this  sense  of  amplitude  and  liberty,  which 
seems  at  first  shut  out  by  the  specialization 
of  studies,  is  to  be  reached  in  no  other  way 
than  through  the  narrow  entrance  of  special- 
ized work.  The  door,  indeed,  shuts  behind 
one  as  he  turns  to  his  chosen  task,  and  shuts 
out  many  delightful  undertakings  which  he 
abandons  with  regret.  Concentration  of  atten- 
tion becomes  the  stern  law  of  success ;  but  of 
a  sudden,  out  of  the  narrow  room  which  he 
has  entered,  at  some  unanticipated  point,  like 
62 


gmitfjap  (Eneninc;s  in  tlje  College  Cljapel 

a  secret  passage  in  a  solid  rock,  another  door 
opens,  out  of  limitation  into  enlargement,  out 
of  facts  into  principles,  and  the  student  dis- 
covers that  the  task  which  seemed  restrictive 
is  in  fact  the  essential  preliminary  of  insight, 
wisdom,  and  power.  First  the  narrow  passage 
of  specialized  learning,  then  the  opening  door 
into  the  general  law,  the  glimpse  of  the  larger 
truth,  the  step  into  mastery,  —  that  is  the  way 
which  the  modern  scholar  has  to  go. 

The  same  experience  meets  one  in  more 
dramatic  fashion  as  he  goes  his  further  way 
into  the  world.  A  young  man  leaves  college 
and  looks  about  him  in  life  for  a  work  which 
is  worth  his  doing  and  which  he  is  fit  to  do, 
and  the  first  impression  which  confronts  him 
is  of  limitation  and  restriction ;  the  doubt 
whether  there  be  any  room  left  for  such  as  he, 
the  lack  of  any  outlook  toward  a  large,  full, 
human  kind  of  life.  It  is  not  that  he  demands 
much  of  the  world.  All  he  asks  is  what  he 
calls  an  "  opening."  "  Give  me  but  a  chance," 
he  says,  "and  I  will  take  my  chances."  But 
the  world's  work  shuts  him  in  between  the 
walls  of  some  confining  task,  and  with  a  sense 
of  hopelessness  he  surrenders  himself  to  its 
inevitable  routine  and  detail,  as  though  the 

63 


gmniiap  (Etoemnp  in  t\>t  College  Cljapel 

one  thing  he  could  not  have  was  the  "  open- 
ing" he  desires.  He  will  not  shirk  even  re- 
pressive obligations  ;  he  will  try  to  believe  in 
the  dignity  of  labor,  even  when  that  labor  is 
mechanical,  insignificant,  and  dull ;  but  at  the 
end  of  the  day  it  is  as  though  the  silent  figure 
of  Life  stood  with  its  back  against  the  door 
which  leads  to  larger  service,  holding  him  off 
as  he  would  force  it  open  ;  and  he  cries  out : 
"  Is  this  shut-in  space  all  the  room  I  am  to 
have,  and  this  meagre  opportunity  the  end  to 
which  my  conscientious  service  leads  ?  Oh 
Life,  that  seems  to  mock  me  with  thy  silence, 
give  me  my  chance!  Open  the  close-shut 
door !  " 

Then,  one  day,  in  a  manner  altogether  un- 
anticipated and  incalculable,  this  man's  chance 
arrives.  The  door  opens,  sometimes  in  quite 
another  place  from  that  which  he  anticipates 
—  not  where  the  door  seemed  to  be,  but  where 
the  wall  seemed  blank  and  impenetrable  ;  and 
the  young  man  is  called  into  the  larger  room, 
of  which  his  restricted  duty  was  the  essential 
vestibule,  and  his  fidelity  to  that  duty  the  only 
key.  You  do  the  shut-in  task  and  it  opens 
into  the  larger  opportunity ;  you  face  the  lim- 
ited duty  and  the  larger  duty  discloses  itself 
64 


Smttfrap  Cbeniiurfi  in  tj)e  College  C&ajiel 

just  beyond.  The  door  beyond  opens  only  as 
the  door  behind  is  shut.  Straight  is  the  gate 
and  narrow  is  the  way  which  leads  to  life.  To 
him  that  is  faithful  in  that  which  is  least, 
that  which  is  much  is  revealed.  That  is  what 
makes  life  so  rich,  so  surprising,  so  romantic, 
—  that  the  little  that  is  known  is  the  gate  of 
the  greater  unknown,  and  the  little  that  one 
does  makes  it  possible  to  do  more.  Sometimes 
these  antechambers  of  experience  are  myste- 
rious and  dark ;  and  duty,  sacrifice,  sickness 
close  round  one's  chances  of  enlargement  like 
prison-cells  which  shut  in  nearer  and  nearer 
as  though  they  were  to  crush  one  to  death. 
But  this  is  the  miracle  of  many  a  shut-in  ex- 
perience —  that  in  the  black,  hard  wall  as  it 
approaches,  there  appears,  first,  a  tiny  beam 
of  light,  then  a  view  beyond  it  to  peace  and 
hope,  and  then  at  last  an  open  door,  through 
which  one  sees  as  never  before  the  meaning 
of  life  and  passes  into  a  use  of  life  to  which 
nothing  but  that  dark  approach  could  have 
disclosed  the  way. 

Such  is  the  story  of  multitudes  of  lives  — 
the  surprising  and  miraculous  story  of  life's 
opening  doors.  But  now,  suppose  one  sums 
up  all  these  scattered  incidents  of  experience 

65 


gmnUap  (Jftjeninffs  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

and  thinks  of  the  whole  of  life  as  thus  con- 
sciously led  from  room  to  room,  to  richer 
gifts  of  opportunity  and  liberty,  of  duty  and 
beauty,  what  is  this  way  of  life  which  opens 
thus  from  door  to  door  ?  Why,  this  is  nothing 
else  than  religion ;  or  more  accurately,  this  is 
the  first  gift  of  the  religion  of  Jesus  Christ  to 
the  life  of  a  young  man  in  the  modern  world. 
It  is  often  fancied  that  the  religious  life  is  a 
narrowing,  restrictive,  disciplinary  experience. 
You  give  up  things ;  you  deny  yourself ;  you 
are  shut  in  by  pledges,  by  creeds,  by  priests ; 
and  then  you  are  a  Christian.  Renunciation, 
"Entsagen"  as  Carlyle  said,  becomes  the  great 
word  of  faith.  The  religious  life,  under  such  a 
definition,  is  not  a  thing  in  motion,  but  at  rest ; 
not  a  form  of  progress,  but  a  way  of  peace. 
No  greater  mistake  can  be  made  about  religion 
than  to  reduce  it  to  this  negative,  ascetic,  mo- 
nastic state  of  mind.  Submission,  self-denial, 
resignation,  are  indeed  asked  of  every  man 
some  day  ;  but  the  first  appeal  of  the  religion  of 
Jesus  Christ  to  normal  and  healthy  youth  is 
to  the  sense  of  power,  initiative,  action,  and 
desire.  It  asks,  first  of  all,  not  denial  but  af- 
firmation ;  not  renunciation  but  acceptance ; 
not  a  retreat  but  an  advance.  "  I  am  come," 
66 


UmiUjap  <£toening0  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

says  Jesus,  "  that  they  may  have  life  and  may 
have  it  abundantly."  "  I  am  not  come  to  de- 
stroy, but  to  fulfil."  It  is  not  a  soft  and  easy 
world  which  is  thus  offered,  with  no  burdens 
to  be  borne.  "  Take  up  thy  cross,"  says  Jesus, 
"  and  follow ! "  But  even  this  is  a  demand,  not 
for  resignation  —  as  though  one  lay  limp  and 
helpless  before  the  cross  of  Christ  —  but  for 
strength  to  take  up  one's  cross  like  a  man  and 
follow,  even  though  stumblingly,  where  the 
way  of  the  cross  must  go.  The  purpose  of 
Jesus  Christ  is  not  to  efface  personality,  but 
to  discover  personality ;  not  to  save  people 
out  of  the  world,  but  to  make  people  fit  to 
save  the  world.  "  Where  the  spirit  of  the  Lord 
is,  there  is  liberty  " ;  "  All  things  are  yours" ; 
"  I  am  the  way,"  — these  are  the  great  com- 
mands which  reverberate  through  the  New 
Testament  —  words  of  growth,  enlargement, 
progress,  power.  Other  aspects  of  the  teach- 
ing of  Jesus  make  their  appeal  to  other  moods 
as  one  enters  deeper  among  the  experiences 
of  life;  but  the  first  word  that  meets  the  shut- 
in,  hesitating,  self-distrustful  life  is  the  sum- 
mons of  Jesus  to  go  forward :  "  I  am  the 
door." 

And  how  is  it,  one  goes  on  to  ask,  that  re- 
67 


JSmntrap  <£bentns;s  in  tfjc  College  Cljapel 

ligion  thus  opens  the  doors  of  life  ?  It  does 
so,  we  must  answer,  in  two  ways,  —  first  by 
/  giving  a  new  meaning  to  the  world,  and  then 
by  giving  a  new  meaning  to  one's  own  life.  It 
opens  the  door,  that  is  to  say,  first  into  a 
larger  universe,  and  then  into  a  deeper  self. 
On  the  one  hand  are  the  great  number  of 
thoughtful  people  who  are  bewildered  by  the 
mystery  of  an  uninterpreted  world.  Here  is 
this  ceaseless  whirl  of  material  forces  in  which 
we  are  involved  ;  this  tragic  struggle  for  physi- 
cal existence,  these  brutal  competitions  of  the 
industrial  world,  this  brief,  vain  incident  of 
personal  life,  with  its  little  joys  and  sorrows, 
its  ambitions  and  dreams,  lifting  themselves 
like  a  bright  wave  upon  the  ocean  and  in  a 
moment  sinking  back  into  the  depth ;  and  the 
cry  comes  from  many  a  heart :  What  does  all 
this  mean  ?  Has  it  any  meaning  ?  Is  it,  as 
some  learned  people  tell  us,  a  hollow,  empty, 
delusive  world,  a  tale  told  by  an  idiot,  full  of 
sound  and  fury,  signifying  nothing  ?  Is  it  but 
a  sport  of  the  Eternal,  where  we  are — 


Impotent  pieces  of  the  game  he  plays, 
Upon  this  checker-board  of  nights  and  days ; 
Hither  and  thither  moves  and  checks  and  slays, 
And  one  by  one  back  in  the  cupboard  lays." 


68 


gmnUap  (£toemng;s  in  tljc  College  Cfcapcl 

What  is  it  that  gives  meaning  to  the  world 
and  sets  one  in  a  rational  universe  of  unity 
and  purpose  instead  of  chaos  and  despair  ? 
It  is  the  view  which  opens  through  the  door 
of  religion.  Much  there  may  be  in  the  order 
of  the  universe  which  still  remains  baffling 
and  mysterious,  much  postponement  of  know- 
ledge in  God's  education  of  the  human  race. 
But  what  a  step  is  taken  toward  sanity  and 
self-control  and  peace  of  mind,  when  one  looks 
upon  the  world  as  the  scene  of  a  spiritual 
intention  and  desire  which  give  to  its  per- 
plexing incidents  their  unity  and  worth  !  It  is 
as  though  the  high  stone  wall  which  bounds 
one's  experience  opened  into  a  gateway  and 
one  looked  through  to  a  path  of  sunlight 
and  flowers.  It  may  be  one's  part  to  stay  and 
work  and  suffer  between  the  walls  of  life,  but 
it  is  easier  to  work  and  possible  to  bear,  if  one 
may  hold  the  gate  a  little  open,  and  keep  the 
vista  clear  from  the  shadow  to  the  sunshine, 
from  the  tasks  of  life  to  the  vision  of  God. 

And  if  this  be  true  of  one's  view  of  the 
world,  it  is  much  more  true  of  one's  knowledge 
of  himself.  For  one  person  that  has  come  to 
doubt  the  meaning  of  the  universe  a  hundred 
have  come  to  doubt  the  meaning  of  their  own 
69 


Stmtta?  (Ktoetunpi  in  t&e  College  Cfjapel 

lives.  How  meagre,  how  superficial,  how  pur- 
poseless, is  this  petty  experience  within  which 
one  seems  inevitably  bound !  How  insignifi- 
cant is  its  scope,  how  unimportant  its  conse- 
quences !  Why  strive  and  agonize,  why  hope 
and  scheme,  as  though  one  were  accomplishing 
and  progressing  and  arriving,  when  in  fact 
one  is  but  the  horse  that  turns  the  treadmill, 
whipped  to  his  task  in  the  machine,  but  tied  all 
day  in  the  little  pen  that  never  moves.  It  is  this 
sense  of  insignificance  and  impotency  which 
robs  a  man  of  his  faith  and  hope.  It  is  some- 
times said  that  young  people  in  our  day  think 
too  much  of  themselves  ;  and  it  would  certainly 
be  an  exaggeration  to  affirm  that  the  typical 
modern  youth  deserves  the  beatitude  pro- 
nounced upon  the  poor  in  spirit.  Yet  the  chief 
moral  danger  of  such  young  lives  does  not  lie,  as 
many  persons  think,  in  their  self-conceit,  but  in 
their  self-distrust ;  not  in  thinking  too  much  of 
themselves,  but  in  thinking  too  little  of  them- 
selves. What  they  need  is  not  so  much  "  taking 
down,"  as  lifting  up;  not  so  much  a  new  self- 
reproach,  as  a  new  self-respect.  To  think  too 
much  of  one's  self  may  be  a  form  of  intoxica- 
tion, but  to  think  too  little  of  one's  self  is  a 
form  of  paralysis.  To  live  in  a  shut-in  uni- 
70 


ISmnUap  (Stoning^  in  tlje  College  C&apel 

verse  is  a  philosophical  misfortune ;  but  to 
live  in  a  shut-in  soul  is  a  moral  tragedy. 

And  what  is  it  which  lets  one  out  from 
this  sense  of  limitation  and  defeat  ?  It  is  the 
sense  of  association  with  the  purposes  of  God, 
the  recognition  of  one's  life  as  a  part  of  the 
Divine  plan,  the  response  of  the  child  to  the 
call  of  the  Father.  You  are  not  alone,  because 
the  Father  is  with  you  ;  you  are  not  helpless, 
because  beneath  you  are  the  Everlasting 
Arms ;  you  are  not  a  failure,  because  you  are  a 
laborer  together  with  God ;  and  an  unexpected 
force  of  capacity  and  effectiveness  is  dis- 
covered as  you  commit  yourself  to  a  service 
which  is  not  your  own.  You  come  to  yourself 
and  say  :  "  I  will  goto  my  Father."  That  is  the 
best  gift  of  religion  —  the  gift  to  the  individual 
soul  of  faith  in  itself.  And  what  is  this  but 
the  opening  of  a  door,  —  not  outward  into  the 
larger  world,  but  inward  into  the  deeper  self, 
—  so  that  one  passes  into  an  interior  life  of 
tranquillity,  serenity,  and  prayer.  The  religious 
life  is  like  those  Egyptian  temples,  which  in 
their  outer  courts  looked  through  great  free 
vistas  to  the  fertile  fields  and  the  deep  blue 
sky  ;  but  as  the  worshipper  sought  the  central 
shrine,  door  after  door  swung  open  into  interior 

7* 


&tmta?  ©toenings  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

rooms,  until  at  last,  in  a  hush  of  solitude  which 
no  sound  could  penetrate  and  no  fellow  wor- 
shipper could  share,  the  single  life  bowed  in 
the  central  sanctuary  where  it  found  its  God. 
Such  then  is  the  first  message  of  religion 
to  an  eager,  forward-looking,  undiscouraged, 
modern  life  —  the  message  of  expansion,  lib- 
erty, spaciousness,  horizon,  hope.  Sometimes 
a  man  asks  what  religion  can  do  for  him  in 
so  busy  and  real  a  world.  It  does  not  answer 
all  his  problems,  or  free  him  from  his  cares,  or 
abolish  his  sorrows,  or  insure  him  against  risk. 
Of  what  use,  then,  is  religion,  if  it  be  not  au- 
thoritative, conclusive,  remedial — a  rest  for 
the  saints  ?  To  such  questions  concerning  the 
meaning  of  religion,  Jesus,  on  the  last  day  of 
his  life,  answers  :  "  I  am  the  door" ;  and  the 
normal,  healthy,  expectant  life  hears  the  sum- 
mons and  welcomes  the  guide  who  opens  the 
door.  What  is  it  to  live,  but  to  pass  from  room 
to  room  of  the  great  house  of  experience  and 
to  find  each  successive  room  more  ample  and 
satisfying  ?  What  can  one  ask  of  life,  but  just 
a  chance  to  enter  the  larger  world  and  to 
know  the  hidden  self  ?  What  is  the  great  mis- 
take of  life  ?  It  is  to  pause  in  the  antechambers 
of  experience  and  never  know  how  spacious 
72 


gmniiap  (Btonunss  in  tfre  College  C&apel 

life  may  be.  And  when,  from  step  to  step,  life 
has  been  thus  led  on,  and  at  last  one  finds  be- 
fore him  that  final  door  which  we  call  Death, 
what  is  it  to  die,  but  to  have  the  door  open 
before  one's  wondering  eyes,  and  to  hear  the 
same  voice  which  has  guided  one  through  the 
doors  of  life  say  once  more :  "  Let  not  your 
heart  be  troubled.  In  my  Father's  house  are 
many  rooms.    I  am  the  Door."  ? 


73 


V 

THE   PRODIGALITY  OF 
PROVIDENCE 

Behold  a  sower  went  forth  to  sow.  —  Matt,  xin,  3. 


fi^pjlJHE  first  thing  that  strikes  one  as  he 
reads  the  parable  of  the  sower  is  its 
air  of  prodigality.  On  some  fair  spring 
morning,  when  the  hills  of  Galilee  were  bathed 
in  the  morning  sun,  Jesus  was  teaching  his 
friends,  as  his  habit  was,  in  the  open  air ;  and, 
looking  up  from  where  he  sat,  he  saw,  on  the 
Galilean  hillside,  a  man  striding  along  a  dis- 
tant furrow,  his  figure  dark  against  the  deep 
blue  eastern  sky.  The  Teacher  seems  to  point 
to  the  man,  saying  :  "  Look !  That  is  the  way 
we  too  must  do  our  work.  Are  we  not  sowers 
of  the  word  of  God  in  the  field  of  the  hearts 
of  man  ?  See,  then,  what  prodigality  there  is 
in  the  movement  of  the  sower.  His  arm  flings 
far  the  seed  and  the  breeze  catches  it  as  he 
flings  ;  and  much  of  it  falls  where  it  can  never 
grow,  some  on  the  roadway  where  the  wheels 
74 


gmntoap  (Enenma;a  in  t&e  College  Cbapel 

will  crush  it,  some  among  the  rocks  where 
there  is  no  soil  to  hold  it,  some  in  the  hedge- 
rows where  the  sun  cannot  warm  it  into  life." 
So  Jesus  notes  each  gesture  of  that  distant 
figure  and  translates  it  into  his  gospel  of  the 
Kingdom.  And  we,  in  our  time,  at  once  re- 
mark the  contrast  between  this  unthrifty  sow- 
ing and  the  modern  method  of  the  farmer's 
work.  The  modern  sower  drives  a  machine 
across  the  field,  and  it  bores  little  holes  at 
even  intervals  and  drops  therein  the  precisely 
sufficient  seed  and  covers  it  up  again,  and 
then  the  field  puts  forth  its  grain  as  if  a  chess- 
board were  blossoming,  and  there  is  nothing 
over  for  lingering  horses  that  would  snatch  a 
tuft  from  the  hedges,  or  for  marauding  birds 
that  follow  the  sower's  track.  What  prodigality 
of  waste  there  was  in  the  primitive  farmer  as  he 
strode  along,  dark  against  the  sky !  Yes,  but 
precisely  this  was  the  lesson  upon  which  Jesus 
seized.  For  the  prodigality  of  sowing  was  to 
be  met  by  a  still  greater  prodigality  of  repro- 
duction. What  matter  was  it,  he  said,  if  some 
seeds  should  fall  among  the  birds  and  bushes 
and  stones,  if  at  the  same  time  what  fell  in 
good  ground  had  such  miraculous  increase  ? 
Three  seeds  out  of  four  might  fail,  if  the  one 

75 


Smntjap  ©toemnfffi  in  tjje  College  C&apel 

which  grew  should  multiply  thirty,  sixty,  or  a 
hundredfold.  There  was  enough  to  fertilize 
the  field  even  if  much  should  fall  beyond  its 
edges.  There  was  no  need  for  niggardly  sowing 
amid  the  prodigality  of  nature.  With  generous 
swing  of  arm  and  with  a  careless  song  upon 
his  lips  the  sower  marched  across  the  furrows, 
anticipating  ineffectiveness  from  many  a  scat- 
tered seed,  but  happy  in  his  assurance  of  the 
prodigality  of  Providence  which  brought  forth 
a  hundredfold  unto  the  harvest. 

Such  was  the  picture  of  his  mission  which 
seemed  to  Jesus  Christ  most  adequate  and 
suggestive.  On  no  other  likeness  does  he 
dwell  with  such  repetition  and  detail.  And 
certainly  his  own  work  is  a  most  extraordinary 
illustration  of  a  kindred  prodigality.  One  of 
the  most  remarkable  traits  of  the  ministry  of 
Jesus  is  its  indifference  to  economy.  He  does 
not  hoard  himself  for  great  occasions,  or  re- 
serve his  words  until  they  shall  find  hearers 
fit  to  welcome  them.  He  moves  through  his 
short  years  of  teaching  with  a  reckless  gene- 
rosity, a  lavish  scattering  of  word  and  deed. 
He  meets  one  day  a  dull-hearted  woman,  and 
as  she  sets  her  pitcher  by  the  well  he  speaks 
to  her  alone  the  greatest  words  which  even 

76 


Smntiap  (Ktoemnss  in  tlje  College  C&apel 

he  ever  uttered.  He  goes  away  one  day 
with  but  three  friends  and  shows  them  alone 
his  glory.  He  squanders  his  healing  and  his 
blessing  on  single  and  often  on  unresponsive 
lives,  and  sometimes  he  charges  them  to  tell 
no  man  what  has  been  done  to  them.  He  flings 
out  great  sayings  as  the  sower  flings  his  seed; 
and  much  of  it  falls  on  hard  hearts  and  meagre 
lives  where  it  can  find  no  root ;  and  then  he 
calmly  marches  on,  saying  :  "  Those  who  have 
ears  to  hear,  let  them  hear." 

What  does  he  mean  by  this  unthrifty  prodi- 
gality? Why  does  not  Jesus  reserve  himself 
for  strategic  occasions,  or  use  more  prudently 
his  short  years  of  opportunity  ?  It  is  because, 
within  this  prodigality  of  waste,  he  discerns  the 
prodigality  of  reproduction.  Ten  words  of  his 
may  find  no  root,  but  if  one  word  shall  fall 
into  but  one  responsive  life  it  may  bring  forth 
a  hundred,  nay  a  thousandfold.  Bravely  he 
walks,  then,  across  the  fields  of  Palestine  sow- 
ing his  precious  seed  ;  and  one  day  one  grain 
falls  into  the  heart  of  one  eager  fisherman,  and 
the  seed  springs  up  in  such  abundance  that 
millions  of  souls  through  twenty  centuries  have 
been  garnered  into  the  Church  of  Peter.  An- 
other day  another  seed  falls  into  the  soul  of 

77 


gmirtiap  (Etoemnffa  in  tit  College  C&apel 

John,  and  there  springs  up  a  teaching  which 
has  borne  a  harvest  of  the  bread  of  life  for 
other  millions  of  souls.  That  was  the  way  of 
Jesus;  the  sowing  of  his  seed  with  a  broad, 
free,  sweeping  arm,  perfectly  sure  that  what- 
ever might  be  wasted  would  be  far  more  than 
matched  by  the  fertilizing  power  of  that  which 
might  find  good  soil.  It  was  not  that  he  was 
careless  of  results,  or  indiscreet  in  method ; 
it  was  because  he  permitted  himself  to  fling 
some  seed  over  the  border  of  his  field,  lest  he 
might  miss  the  hungriest  soil  of  all.  He  was 
able  to  bear  with  waste  because  when  at  last 
the  good  ground  and  the  good  seed  met  there 
was  so  amply  fulfilled  his  fruitful  purpose. 
Here  is  a  teaching  which  interprets  to  us 
some  of  the  most  perplexing  incidents  of  our 
own  lives.  We  must  not  misread  the  parable. 
It  does  not  say  that  one  should  have  no  dis- 
tinct field  or  restricted  vocation.  It  does  not 
say  that  if  one  has  a  field  it  is  better  to  throw 
one's  seed  over  the  edges.  To  have  no  dis- 
tinct field  to  sow,  to  fling  one's  life  recklessly 
away,  is  not  to  be  generous  or  noble  ;  but  sim- 
ply to  be  scatter-brained,  extravagant,  dissi- 
pated. But  what  often  happens  in  many  lives 
is  this,  —  that  even  while  one  faithfully  sows 

78 


ISmntoap  ©btning-fi  in  t|)c  College  Cfrapel 

his  own  field  he  is  necessarily  confronted  with 
a  perplexing  and  portentous  sense  of  waste, 
which  at  first  is  alarming  and  disheartening, 
but  which  turns  out  to  be  an  essential  and 
significant  part  of  the  sower's  task. 

Consider,  for  instance,  the  story  of  edu- 
cation in  which,  as  teachers  or  students, 
most  of  us  are  engaged.  A  teacher  gives 
himself  with  daily  devotion  to  his  lectures, 
his  reading,  the  routine  and  drill  of  his 
class ;  and  then,  one  day,  he  looks  back  on 
his  task,  and  what  a  waste  of  effort  it  seems  ! 
He  has  been  sowing  his  seed  with  a  gen- 
erous hand,  and  how  much  of  it  has  failed  to 
grow !  How  stony  and  thorny  is  his  field  and 
how  meagre  looks  the  harvest !  Why  did  he 
not  sow  with  a  thriftier  care,  and  spare  him- 
self the  superfluous  effort  to  raise  a  crop  from 
so  thin  a  soil  ?  And  as  the  teacher  feels  the 
waste  of  teaching,  so  the  student  feels  the 
waste  of  learning.  How  many  things  he  has 
studied  and  how  little  there  is  left !  How 
many  subjects  have  been  forgotten  as  soon  as 
mastered ;  so  that  an  examination  is  fitly  said 
to  be  "passed,"  as  though  all  that  it  repre- 
sented were  promptly  left  behind !  Why 
should  he  be  driven  to  studies  which  he 
79 


^untiap  Cbemnp  in  t&e  College  Cfjapcl 

cannot  use,  as  though  forced  to  scatter 
seed  beyond  the  field  for  which  he  cares  ? 
Then,  into  this  despondency  of  education 
breaks  the  profounder  truth  which  fortifies 
both  the  teacher's  and  the  student's  hope. 
For  this  prodigality  of  sowing  is  met  by  a  still 
more  surprising  prodigality  of  reproduction. 
Out  of  the  confusion  of  things  quickly  learned 
and  quickly  forgotten  there  starts  up  some 
day  one  thought,  or  subject,  or  course  of 
study,  or  book,  or  word,  which  gives  direction 
and  happiness  to  one's  whole  life,  and  the 
student  is  amazed  to  see  how  close  the  inspira- 
tion lay  to  the  most  irksome  tasks,  and  how 
a  more  restricted  duty-doing  might  have 
missed  the  best  his  training  had  to  give. 
Through  the  routine  and  drudgery  of  the 
teacher's  work  there  breaks  some  day  the 
consciousness  that  a  few  responsive  lives  have 
been  wisely  led,  that  here  and  there  the  way 
has  been  opened  to  usefulness  and  power  ;  and 
the  teacher  goes  back  to  his  task,  like  the 
sower  in  the  freshness  of  the  morning,  and 
throws  his  seed  more  lavishly  than  ever,  in 
the  new  hope  of  finding  here  and  there  a 
patch  of  soil  which  may  reward  him  a  hun- 
dredfold. 

80 


&tmtoap  (Enemntrs  in  t&c  College  Cfcapcl 

That  is  the  story  of  education,  which  any- 
one who  looks  back  upon  it,  as  teacher  or 
scholar,  would  have  to  tell.  And  the  same 
story  meets  us  when,  instead  of  looking  back 
on  the  course  of  education,  we  look  forward 
to  the  way  of  life  which  each  has  to  go.  You 
give  yourself  with  all  your  heart  to  the 
doing  of  your  duty.  In  your  place  in  the 
world  you  lavish  time,  strength,  and  train- 
ing for  the  common  good.  You  sanctify 
yourself  —  as  your  Master  said  —  for  others' 
sake.  And  then,  some  day,  you  are  con- 
fronted by  the  paralyzing  sense  of  waste- 
fulness. In  what  a  sterile  land  you  have  been 
sowing  !  How  unrequited,  unrecognized,  and 
unfruitful  are  your  conscientiousness  and 
sacrifice!  What  a  mockery  is  this  superfluous 
generosity  of  service  !  Would  it  not  be  better 
to  shut  one's  self  within  the  definite  limits  of 
one's  stint  of  work,  and  become  a  machine  of 
hours  and  routine,  with  a  fixed  service  for  a 
fixed  pay  ?  No  one  can  have  a  part  in  the 
business  of  the  world  without  this  sense  of 
prodigious  waste,  as  though  his  days  were 
chiefly  occupied  by  interruptions,  and  the  last 
thing  he  might  hope  to  accomplish  were  the 
thing  he  feels  most  called  to  do !  His  hours 
81 


J&mnUap  (KtoenuiffS  in  tfce  Collect  C&apel 

might  have  been  given  to  his  own  affairs,  and 
they  have  been  snatched  away  by  insignificant 
duties,  as  Jesus  himself  was  called  one  day  from 
the  very  Mount  of  his  transfiguration  to  go 
down  and  help  one  poor  little  paralytic  boy. 
And  yet,  as  one  looks  back  upon  these  dissi- 
pated days,  how  often  it  becomes  plain  that 
this  diversion  of  energy  from  what  one  had 
desired  to  do  opened  the  way  to  that  which 
one  could  do  best ;  and  that  what  seemed  su- 
perfluous and  accidental  was,  in  fact,  the  best 
blessing  which  the  day  had  to  give !  Here  is 
the  fundamental  difference  between  the  invalu- 
able and  the  wage-earning  worker.  The  extra 
fidelity,  the  lavish  service,  the  skill  which  is 
uncontracted  for,  —  these  are  the  traits  which 
are  the  hardest  to  hire,  and  the  most  precious 
to  secure.  The  sower  in  the  field  of  industry 
who  most  spares  his  hand  may  miss  the  very 
corners  of  the  field  where  the  best  soil  is  wait- 
ing for  the  wide-flung  seed.  Side  by  side  in 
the  furrows  of  modern  life  one  may  see  walk- 
ing along  the  modern  world  these  two  types 
of  workers,  —  the  niggardly  and  the  generous 
sower.  One  goes  his  self-contained  and  re- 
stricted way,  denying  himself  all  concern  for 
things  which  detach  him  from  his  task,  bend- 
82 


i&mn&ap  (EtocntnffS  in  tlje  College  Cfcapel 

ing  over  his  chosen  soil  with  a  thrifty  care ; 
and,  at  last,  the  book  he  has  toiled  on  is  writ- 
ten, and  behold,  it  is  unread ;  or  the  fortune 
for  which  he  has  sacrificed  everything  is 
made,  and  it  turns  to  ashes  in  his  hands  ;  or 
he  has  won  the  fear  of  men,  and  forfeited 
their  love.  The  life  which  he  thought  was  to 
be  large  and  free  shrinks  about  him  into  a 
prison.  He  has  become  great,  but  he  has  not 
become  happy ;  he  has  saved  his  life  and  yet 
he  has  lost  it ;  he  has  farmed  his  life,  he  has 
not  lived  it.  His  shut-in  field  is  white  with  a 
harvest,  but  he  cannot  help  missing  the  birds 
and  the  hedgerows  which  give  his  neighbor's 
field  its  music  and  its  charm.  Then,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  the  sower  with  the  broad  sweep 
of  service  and  the  lavish  swing  of  love.  He 
also  has  his  own  work  to  do.  He  marches  along 
his  own  furrow  with  a  steady  look  to  its  end  ; 
but  he  does  not  miss  the  wayside  duties  or 
the  crevices  where  some  eager  soil  is  waiting, 
and  the  edges  of  the  highway  blossom  when 
his  work  is  done. 

Let  us  take  still  another  step  into  the  teach- 
ing of  Jesus,  as  his  parable  enters  the  more 
perplexing  field  where  our  moral  problems  and 
struggles  grow,  —  the  field  where  trouble  and 

83 


JSmntoap  (Kbeninpf  in  ifce  College  C&apel 

blunders  and  failures  spring  up  and  choke 
the  seed  we  want  to  sow.  Now,  of  course,  in 
this  field  of  moral  experience  it  never  can  be 
wise  to  blunder,  or  profitable  to  sin,  or  judi- 
cious to  sow  good  seed  in  sterile  ground.  The 
wise  man  uses  his  life,  he  does  not  throw  it 
away.  But,  when  one  thinks  of  life,  not  as  he 
might  wish  it  to  be,  but  as  it  really  is,  who 
does  not  recognize  that  blunders  and  mis- 
takes and  barrenness  are  the  inevitable  ac- 
companiment of  one's  most  prudent  desires  ? 
You  give  yourself  generously  to  your  duty, 
and  one  day  the  paralyzing  sense  of  ineffec- 
tiveness and  incapacity  attacks  you,  as  though 
a  hidden  enemy  struck  your  weapon  from 
your  hand.  You  want  to  be  kind  and  you  are 
confronted  by  thanklessness,  or  misinterpre- 
tation, or  pride.  You  yield  your  heart  to  an 
unrestrained  affection  and  there  shuts  in  be- 
tween you  and  your  beloved  the  blank,  im- 
penetrable wall  of  separation  or  death.  And 
then  you  begin  to  listen  to  the  philosophers 
of  despair,  who  say  to  you :  "  Is  not  this  pre- 
cisely what  you  should  expect?  Is  not  this 
world  essentially  a  hard,  relentless,  ungrate- 
ful place  ?  See  the  cruel  law  of  life.  Not  one 
seed  in  ten  germinates ;  not  one  creature  in 
84 


JSmiuW  Cucninfffi  in  tljc  Collcp  Cljapcl 

ten  is  fit  to  survive.  Not  one  love  in  a  hun- 
dred bears  its  perfect  flower.  Why  love  and 
serve  if  there  must  be  this  prodigality  of 
wastefulness ;  why  risk  mistakes  and  en- 
counter ingratitude  and  suffer  sorrow  by  this 
lavish,  unreflecting  swing  of  the  sower's  care- 
less hand  ?  Why  not  rather  fence  in  the  field 
of  your  desire,  and  shut  out  the  larger  hope, 
and  then,  though  indeed  you  may  walk  your 
furrow  with  a  downcast  look,  you  will  be  safe 
from  the  folly  of  sowing  where  no  crop  can 
grow  ? "  Ah,  but  no  sooner  does  one  try  to  live 
this  sagacious,  secure,  well-considered  life, 
than  he  discovers  that  in  thus  escaping  from 
some  of  the  ills  of  life  he  has  been  missing 
life  itself.  For  life  is  not  a  system  of  insur- 
ance against  risks  ;  life  is  a  venture,  a  hazard, 
a  victory  over  risks.  A  man  does  not  succeed 
by  avoiding  blunders  and  mishaps  ;  he  stum- 
bles along  through  blunders,  redeeming  him- 
self from  mishaps,  and  in  the  end  stands 
equally  amazed  at  the  mistakes  he  has  sur- 
vived and  at  the  fruit  of  some  incidental  sow- 
ing. The  man  who  makes  no  failures  is  likely 
to  make  few  successes.  Mistakes  one  must  ex- 
pect to  make,  and  foolish  blunders,  and  un- 
fruitful efforts,  and  here  and  there  the  crop 

85 


isunfcap  Ctoenmp  in  tfce  College  CJmpel 

one  looks  for  fails ;  but  the  prodigality  of  God 
atones  for  the  uncertainty  of  man,  until  one 
man  seems  to  have  been  blessed  through  his 
blunders,  and  another  seems  to  have  saved 
only  what  he  had  counted  to  be  waste. 

And  what  shall  we  say  of  those  profounder 
experiences  which  sometimes  sweep  away  the 
most  cherished  blessings,  as  though  a  storm 
swept  down  upon  the  sower  and  blew  away  all 
the  seed  which  he  held  tight  to  his  bosom  ? 
Among  the  various  aspects  of  the  sorrows  of 
life  what  is  there  more  overwhelming  than 
the  sense  of  wastefulness  ?  How  superfluous, 
how  uninterpretable,  how  far  beyond  the 
needs  of  discipline,  are  these  tragic  expe- 
riences, which  come  like  a  marauding  bird  and 
snatch  the  most  precious  seed  out  of  the 
sower's  hand  ?  And  yet,  impossible  as  it  may 
be  to  justify  the  purposes  of  God,  how  often 
it  happens  that  the  seed  which  seems  thus 
wasted  has  its  surprising  harvest !  Many  a 
life  is  held  to  the  task  it  has  to  do  by  the  love 
it  seems  to  have  lost ;  and  among  the  treas- 
ures which  it  keeps  counts  dearest  the  treas- 
ure which  is  gone.  Many  a  life  could  spare 
almost  any  possession  more  willingly  than 
its  sanctifying  sorrows.  Prodigal  indeed  is 
86 


UmnUap  (EtocnmjrB  in  tljc  College  C&apcl 

the  providence  of  God  in  its  dealings  with  the 
life  of  man ;  but  even  more  prodigal  is  the 
love  of  God,  which  fertilizes  life  with  tears, 
as  the  seed  is  fertilized  by  rain. 

Such  is  the  Parable  of  the  Sower,  —  the 
prodigality  of  God  meeting  the  generosity  of 
man ;  the  diversified  story  of  fruitage  and 
barrenness,  of  effectiveness  and  failure,  of 
gain  and  loss,  which  every  human  life  has  to 
tell.  The  work  and  play,  the  duties  and  de- 
sires, the  hopes  and  fears  of  the  future,  lie 
before  one  like  a  landscape  with  its  light  and 
shadow,  its  rocks  and  fields,  its  fertile  and  its 
sterile  soil ;  and  one  asks  himself,  "Suppose 
I  do  my  best,  and  sow  and  tend  and  wait, 
what  will  my  harvest  be  ?  "  And  the  answer 
of  experience  is  perfectly  plain.  You  will  get 
both  much  less  than  you  expect,  and  much 
more.  Many  plans  are  sure  to  fail ;  many 
hopes  are  sure  to  be  defeated ;  but,  out  of 
what  seems  failure  and  hopelessness  will 
spring  up  here  and  there  a  crop  of  gratitude, 
consolation,  companionship,  comfort,  effi- 
ciency and  love,  which  almost  bewilders  the 
sower  with  its  unlooked-for  profusion.  Much 
stony  ground  there  must  be,  much  thin  soil 
and  many  swooping  birds  ;  but  here  and  there 
87 


I&tmiiap  dEbemnp  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

the  astonishing  fertilization  of  some  lightly 
scattered  seed,  some  thirty,  some  sixty,  some 
a  hundredfold.  The  task  that  seemed  to  im- 
poverish life  may  enrich  it ;  its  loss  may  be 
its  gain  ;  its  interruption  its  redemption.  The 
thing  you  set  out  to  do  may  remain  undone, 
but  that  which  happened  by  the  way,  and 
could  not  happen  in  any  other  way,  rewards 
you  with  its  undesigned  return. 

That  is  what  makes  life  perennially  surpris- 
ing, humbling,  and  miraculous.  You  never 
know  what  incident  of  experience  is  to  have 
this  fertilizing  power  ;  or  in  what  corner  of  life 
this  unearned  increment  is  to  be  found.  Life 
becomes  speculative,  dramatic,  expectant.  You 
walk  your  way,  not  through  a  world  of  prose 
and  commonplace,  but  through  a  world  of 
poetry  and  miracle.  The  fenced-in  life  may 
fill  its  barn  and  leave  the  beauty  and  ro- 
mance of  experience  unharvested.  The  life 
which  partakes  of  the  prodigality  of  God  dis- 
covers the  scope  and  joy  of  the  service  of 
man.  Not  with  a  foolish  and  excessive  hope, 
as  though  each  seed  must  grow,  but  with  a 
cheerful  song  upon  his  lips,  —  the  man  who 
hears  this  parable  of  nature  opens  the  gate 
of  the  morning  and  enters  his  own  field,  bear- 
88 


^mrrtiap  <£btning;0  in  tbe  College  C&apel 

ing  the  seed  that  is  trusted  to  his  care  ;  and 
the  Master  of  the  religious  life  watches  this 
man  across  the  valley  of  the  years,  as  he 
looked  one  day  across  the  slopes  of  Palestine, 
and  says  again,  "Behold,  another  sower  of 
my  seed,  going  forth  into  the  world  to  sow." 


89 


VI 
THE  COMFORT  OF  THE  TRUTH 

If  I  go  not  away  the  Comforter  will  not  come  unto  you. 
•  .  .  Howbeit,  when  he,  the  Spirit  of  truth,  is  come,  he 
will  guide  you  into  all  truth.  — John  xvi,  7,  13. 


g^£p$  HAT  must  have  been  a  hard  saying 
^  to  the  followers  of  Jesus.  They  had 
come  to  him,  anticipating  that  he 
would  himself  guide  them  into  all  truth  ;  and 
he  had  expressly  said  to  them  :  "I  am  the 
way,  I  am  the  truth."  Now,  however,  just  as 
he  is  about  to  leave  them,  he  tells  them  that 
there  is  much  truth  which  is  not  for  him  to 
give.  "  I  have  many  things  to  say  unto  you, 
but  ye  cannot  bear  them,"  or,  as  the  Greek 
says,  "carry  them  away  with  you  now." 
"Howbeit,  when  he,  the  Spirit  of  truth,  is 
come,  he  will  guide  you,"  or,  as  the  Greek 
says,  "show  you  the  road  into  all  truth." 
What  an  impression  of  incompleteness  and 
fragmentariness  that  seems  to  give  to  the 
ministry  of  Jesus !  How  bewildered  are  the 
little  company  as  they  are  thus  confronted 
90 


&tmftap  ®bttimg0  in  tbe  College  Chapel 

by  the  unfinished  nature 'of  their  Master's 
work.  How  could  they  call  the  spirit  of  truth, 
which  was  to  take  his  place,  a  Comforter  ? 
How  far  from  comforting  was  such  truth  as 
this !  "  Lord,  we  know  not  whither  thou 
goest,"  says  Thomas  to  him.  "Whither  goest 
thou?"  asks  Peter.  "Show  us  the  Father, 
and  it  sufficeth  us,"  is  the  even  more  ele- 
mentary demand  of  Philip ;  until  at  last  the 
thought  of  the  things  that  have  been  undis- 
closed sweeps  over  them  with  such  a  wave  of 
discouragement  that  they  do  not  even  ask 
him,  "Whither  goest  thou  ?  "  for  "sorrow  had 
filled  their  hearts." 

To  Jesus,  on  the  other  hand,  there  seems  to 
come  no  oppressive  sense  of  prematureness  in 
departure,  or  of  incompleteness  in  work.  The 
end  of  his  ministry  has  arrived  just  when  it 
should.  "It  is  expedient  for  you,"  he  says, 
"that  I  go  away."  "Father,  the  hour  is 
come ;  I  have  finished  the  work  which  thou 
gavest  me  to  do."  It  was  not  essential  that  he 
should  tell  his  disciples  all  things.  Indeed,  it 
was  impossible  for  him  to  tell  them,  for  there 
were  many  things  which  they  could  not  carry 
away.  It  was  enough  if  he  had  put  into  their 
hearts,  not  a  perfect  system  of  the  truth,  not  a 

91 


JSmnfcap  ©benttiffa  fn  t&e  College  C&apel 

final  answer  to  their  questionings,  but  a  suscep- 
tibility to  the  truth,  a  responsiveness  to  his 
ideal,  a  habit  of  mind  and  will  which  should  be 
able  to  receive  the  comfort  of  the  truth  as  it 
might  be  given.  Jesus  is  content  to  leave  many 
mysteries  unexplained,  and  many  instructions 
undelivered,  if  he  can  convey  to  those  who  love 
him  a  certain  loyalty  of  the  will  which  shall 
make  them  welcome  the  spirit  of  the  truth 
when  it  arrives.  As  he  leaves  them  it  is  not 
with  the  sense  that  his  work  for  them  is 
finished,  but  that  it  has  just  begun  :  for  that 
which  seems  his  fragmentary  teaching  is  to 
be  taken  up  into  the  continuity  of  the  pur- 
poses of  God,  and  is  to  find  its  interpretation, 
not  alone  through  that  which  it  has  given,  but 
through  that  also  for  which  it  has  prepared 
the  way.  "  I  will  not  leave  you  comfortless. 
The  spirit  of  the  truth,  which  is  the  Com- 
forter, shall  come  to  you."  "Greater  works 
than  these  shall  ye  do,  because  I  go  to  my 
Father." 

This  is  the  thought  of  the  mission  of  Jesus, 
which  soon  came  to  be  shaped  by  the  theo- 
logians into  the  Christian  doctrine  of  the  pro- 
cession of  the  Holy  Ghost.  The  Holy  Spirit, 
say  the  creeds  with  profound  truth,  proceeds 
92 


J§>untoaj>  ©Dtninp  in  t\)t  College  C&apcl 

from  the  Father  and  the  Son.  But  a  theologi- 
cal doctrine,  expressed  in  the  language  of  one 
age,  has  to  be  repeatedly  translated  into  the 
language  of  another  age;  and  an  abstract  idea 
frozen  into  a  formula  has  to  be  melted  into 
the  language  of  life.  It  is  like  a  flowing  river 
which  has  been  arrested  by  the  winter's  frost 
and  has  stiffened  into  ice,  and  the  theologians 
cut  great  blocks  out  of  it  and  fill  their  store- 
houses, and  the  agile  philosophers  glide  upon 
its  surface  and  cover  it  with  their  intricate 
symbols  ;  and  then,  one  day,  the  warm  sun  of 
the  experience  of  life  shines  down  upon  the 
stream  and  melts  it,  and  the  river  flows  again 
with  the  water  of  life  and  fulfils  the  task 
which  it  was  meant  to  do.  When  one,  then, 
in  the  language  of  the  theologians,  announces 
that  the  mission  of  the  Son  is  to  be  fulfilled 
through  the  mission  of  the  Spirit,  what  is  the 
first  aspect  of  that  majestic  doctrine  ?  It  is 
this :  —  that  Jesus,  with  a  splendid  confidence, 
trusts  his  work  to  the  spirit  of  the  truth.  The 
truth  will  be  the  Comforter.  Jesus  might  have 
formulated  what  is  called  an  evangelical  sys- 
tem ;  but  there  is  hardly  a  trace  of  system  in 
his  thought.  He  might  have  arranged  what  is 
called  a  scheme  of  salvation ;  but  he  has  no 

93 


&tmtrap  (Ktoenitiffg  in  tfce  College  Cljapel 

confidence  in  saving  people  by  schemes.  He 
simply  wins  lives  to  himself,  and  then  with- 
out a  shadow  of  distrust  commends  those  lives 
to  the  spirit  of  the  truth,  perfectly  sure  that 
they  will  find  therein  a  sufficient  interpreter 
and  comforter.  It  is  as  if  one  were  set  to  train 
men  for  the  navigation  of  an  unexplored  and 
fickle  sea.  He  does  not  attempt  to  describe 
for  each  unknown  contingency  a  specific  way 
of  conduct,  but  he  trains  the  mind  and  will 
for  all  contingencies  which  may  happen  in 
those  great  waters,  arming  his  navigators  with 
the  instinct  of  obedience,  with  the  habit  of 
alertness,  with  the  principles  of  their  art,  with 
the  unswerving  instruments  which  will  point 
out  their  way.  Then,  as  they  sail  forth  into 
the  unknown,  they  have  the  only  comfort 
which  is  sufficient  for  their  adventure ;  the 
spirit  of  the  truth  has  been  communicated  to 
them,  and  it  gives  them  the  mastery  of  each 
storm  as  it  comes  and  shows  them  the  way  at 
last  to  the  haven  where  they  would  be. 

Such  is  the  teaching  of  Jesus  concerning 
the  comfort  of  the  truth  ;  and  while  at  its  first 
statement  it  seems  to  recall  our  attention  to 
theological  differences  and  problems,  it  is  in 
reality  the  expression  of  a  general  law  of  pro- 

94 


iSmntoap  (Burning^  in  t\)t  College  C&apcl 

gress  and  peace.  Consider,  for  instance,  the 
method  of  a  wise  and  fruitful  education. 
Who  is  the  teacher  whom  one  recalls  with 
gratitude  and  praise  ?  It  is  not  he  who  has 
indoctrinated  us  with  his  system,  or  drilled 
us  in  our  task ;  it  is  he  who  through  the  task 
assigned  has  been  able  to  impart  to  us  the 
love  of  learning,  —  the  spirit  of  the  truth.  It 
is  he  who  has  not  only  instructed,  or  built 
us  up,  but  he  who  has  educated,  or  drawn  us 
out.  Out  of  a  confusion  of  conflicting  forces 
there  is  drawn  through  wise  education  a 
person,  with  unsuspected  capacity  for  self- 
direction  and  self-control.  When  the  spirit 
of  the  truth  has  come  to  the  pupil  the 
teacher's  highest  task  is  done.  That  is  at 
once  the  dignity  and  pathos  of  the  teacher's 
life.  His  work  is  never  more  than  half  fulfilled. 
His  class  departs  to  new  teachers  and  new 
tasks.  He  is  like  the  pilot  who  steers  a  ship- 
load of  passengers  past  the  first  perils  of  their 
voyage,  and  then  from  his  little  boat  waves  his 
farewell  to  them  as  they  stand  boldly  forth  to 
other  shores.  Yet  this  is  the  dignity  of  the 
teacher's  calling.  He  is  responsible  for  the  be- 
ginnings of  a  prosperous  voyage,  and  has  set 
the  mind  where  the  spirit  of  the  truth  can  reach 

95 


i&tmTiap  (Knenincrfif  in  t&e  College  Chapel 

it  like  a  strong  sea  breeze  that  swells  the  sails 
and  bears  the  vessel  safely  on  its  way. 

And  who,  again,  is  the  educated  man,  and 
what  is  the  test  of  his  liberal  education  ?  The 
educated  man  is  not  distinguished  by  his 
stock  of  knowledge,  or  by  his  technical  skill. 
A  schoolboy  may  have  readier  information, 
an  artisan  has  greater  skill.  The  mark  of 
an  educated  man  is  in  a  certain  habit  of 
mind,  an  instinct  for  the  truth,  an  insight 
for  reality,  the  applicability  of  his  powers 
to  the  varied  problems  and  exigencies  of 
experience  as  they  shall  arrive.  There  are 
many  things  which  he  does  not  know,  but  he 
has  one  great  comforter,  his  love  of  truth. 
Into  the  unknown  he  walks  with  tranquillity 
and  confidence,  because  the  spirit  of  the 
truth  has  come  to  him  and  guides  him  into 
all  truth. 

Take  the  same  principle  once  more  into  the 
region  of  duty.  What  is  it  that  makes  you 
do  your  duty  ?  What  is  it  that  makes  you  de- 
termine with  certainty  and  promptness  what 
it  is  your  duty  to  do  ?  At  once  there  come  to 
mind  the  long  series  of  maxims  and  counsels 
and  definitions  which  have  gone  to  make  up 
one's  moral  code,  —  the  exhortations  of  a 
96 


Smn&ap  (Etoentmrs  in  t(je  €nllcg;e  Cfjapel 

mother,  the  commands  of  a  father,  the  words 
of  teachers  and  of  preachers,  the  books  on 
ethics,  the  gathering  experiences  of  life.  All 
these  admonitions  and  instructions  have  been 
enforcing  for  us  the  supremacy  of  duty,  and 
shaping  by  degrees  our  moral  creed.  Yet,  if 
one's  sense  of  duty  is  really  constructed  of 
these  external  scaffoldings  of  instruction  and 
advice,  how  easily  it  is  consumed  when  the  fire 
of  a  real  temptation  is  lit !  How  differently 
life  looks  when  it  actually  confronts  one  from 
life  when  it  is  lectured  or  preached  or  heard 
about ;  and  how  impossible  it  is  for  the  wisest 
counsellor  to  anticipate  the  precise  point 
where  the  attack  of  evil  will  be  delivered  and 
its  strategy  disclosed!  When  these  tests  of 
experience  arrive,  what  is  it  that  makes  you 
able  to  judge  and  to  do  your  duty  ?  It  is  the  ac- 
quisition through  all  these  instructions  and  ex- 
periences of  a  certain  instinct  of  the  will  con- 
cerning the  right,  which  distinguishes  the  base 
from  the  noble,  precisely  as  the  scholar's  in- 
stinct distinguishes  the  false  from  the  true. 
The  refinement  of  a  woman  is  not  the  product 
of  occasional  decisions  or  computations  apply- 
ing her  moral  code;  she  repels  that  which  is 
vulgar  as  instinctively  as  she  shrinks  from  a 

97 


g>tmirap  <£toentnff6  in  t&e  Collie  C&apel 

flame.  The  courage  of  a  soldier  is  not  a  thing 
of  reflection  or  calculation.  It  is  a  habit  of 
mind,  wrought  into  a  command  so  imperative 
that,  as  one  soldier  said  of  his  gallant  charge, 
"  If  I  had  not  been  afraid  to  do  it,  I  should 
have  run  away."  That  is  moral  security,  —  not 
an  obedience  to  moral  precepts,  but  a  state 
of  moral  sensitiveness.  The  life  that  is  safe 
among  the  moral  problems  of  the  world  is  not 
one  which  has  accumulated  the  most  maxims 
of  conduct ;  but  one  to  which  the  spirit  of  the 
truth  has  come,  and  which  is  guided  step  by 
step  through  the  slippery  ways  of  duty-doing 
toward  the  whole  of  truth.  Moral  health,  in 
other  words,  like  physical  health,  is  a  product 
of  acclimatization.  One  comes  to  want  the  ex- 
cellent, as  he  wants  fresh  air.  Moral  strength, 
like  physical  strength,  comes  not  of  protec- 
tion, but  of  exposure  ;  not  in  being  kept  from 
the  cold,  but  in  being  fortified  against  it.  It 
is  like  the  anti-toxin  of  disease,  which  does  not 
prevent  the  approach  of  bacteria,  but  makes 
one  immune  to  their  attack.  Thus  there 
comes  in  every  parent's  life  that  dreaded  mo- 
ment when  he  discovers  that  his  first  duty  to 
his  boy  is  to  let  him  go  his  own  way  and  solve 
his  own  problem  and  live  his  own  life.  With 
98 


SmnUap  dEtoeiungfi  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

a  new  effort  of  self-control  the  wise  parent 
yields  his  child  to  the  spirit  of  the  truth  which 
is  the  only  permanent  comforter ;  repeating 
the  Master's  words :  "  It  is  expedient  for  you 
that  I  go  away "  ;  and  out  into  the  world 
walks  the  child  alone,  armed  with  this  spirit 
of  the  truth  which  his  parents  have  taught 
him  to  trust;  and  with  a  miraculous  confidence 
marches  unscathed  and  immune  through  ex- 
periences and  decisions  which  not  even  the 
most  loving  or  wisest  parent  could  possibly 
foresee. 

It  was  not,  however,  either  of  education  or 
of  morality  that  Jesus  was  thinking  when  he 
spoke  thus  to  his  friends.  He  was  conversing 
with  them  about  the  religious  life  and  its  way 
of  loyalty  and  service.  He  was  trying  to  tell 
them,  before  he  went  away,  what  he  expected 
of  them,  and  what  he  claimed  for  himself.  It 
was  his  last  chance  to  re-affirm  the  charac- 
ter of  his  own  mission,  the  nature  of  Chris- 
tian faith,  and  the  conditions  of  discipleship. 
What  is  it,  then,  that  Jesus  expects  of  those 
who  are  to  follow  him  ?  What  is  a  saving 
Christian  faith  ?  What  is  the  story  of  a 
Christian  experience?  No  sooner  does  one 
ask  these  questions  than  there  range  them- 

99 


^mitfrnp  ©beninp  in  tfce  College  C&apel 

selves  before  him  the  various  formulas  and 
systems  of  the  Christian  Church,  competing 
for  acceptance,  asserting  their  supremacy, 
and  announcing  their  code  of  belief  and  prac- 
tice as  the  essence  of  a  Christian  faith.  And 
the  inquirer  looks  from  one  to  another  of  these 
codes,  and  turns  wearily  away  from  their  con- 
tentious demands  as  though  he  had  asked  for 
bread  and  were  offered  a  stone.  Then,  once 
more,  he  looks  back  to  Jesus  himself  and  per- 
ceives in  the  Gospel  no  such  petrifaction  of  the 
bread  of  life,  but  a  glad  free  gift  of  nourishment 
for  hungry  souls.  One  of  the  most  striking 
traits  of  the  ministry  of  Jesus  is  his  unques- 
tioning and  often  abrupt  acceptance  of  persons 
whose  theological  views  and  ecclesiastical  posi- 
tion would  not  have  approached  the  standards 
required  in  many  a  Christian  communion  to- 
day. Jesus  meets  one  day  a  Roman  soldier, 
whom  perhaps  he  had  never  seen  before,  and 
reading  in  the  man's  eye  and  voice  the  habit 
of  loyalty,  says  of  him  :  "  I  have  not  found  so 
great  faith,  no,  not  in  Israel."  A  sinning  wo- 
man comes  to  Jesus  saying :  "  Lord,  help 
me;"  and  Jesus  answers:  " Great  is  thy 
faith."  A  blind  beggar  cries  to  Jesus  for 
mercy,  and  the  teacher  says :  "  Thy  faith 
ioo 


gmntoap  (Etocninfffi  tn  t\)t  Ccllcfft  C&apU 

hath  saved  thee  " ;  and,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  theologically  accurate  and  intellectually 
gifted  Pharisees  come  to  him  to  entangle  him 
in  his  talk,  and  he  looks  with  the  same  dis- 
cernment into  their  hearts,  and  confronts 
them  with  his  solemn  warning  and  rebuke. 
What  is  it,  then,  that  Jesus  looks  for 
in  his  followers  ?  What  is  the  faith  that 
saves  ?  It  is  an  attitude  of  the  mind,  a  train- 
ing of  the  will,  a  sensitiveness  of  the  con- 
science, which  make  a  life  susceptible  to 
spiritual  messages  as  they  shall  arrive.  Pre- 
cisely as  the  teacher's  joy  is  in  the  kindling 
of  the  love  of  learning  ;  precisely  as  the  secret 
of  duty-doing  is  in  the  evolution  of  an  in- 
stinct for  the  right ;  so  the  desire  of  Jesus 
Christ  is  for  a  responsiveness  to  his  invita- 
tion, and  repeatedly  he  welcomes  this  respon- 
siveness as  of  the  essence  of  Christian  faith. 
Incomplete  and  halting  such  loyalty  may  be  ; 
"  Lord,"  say  the  disciples, "  increase  our  faith." 
"We  believe,  help  thou  our  unbelief."  Yet 
Jesus  takes  such  loyalty  just  as  it  is,  and  be- 
lieves in  his  followers  even  when  they  do  not 
believe  in  themselves;  until  at  last  out  of 
characters  which  seem  unstable  and  un- 
formed, he  makes  men  fit  to  carry  on  his 


f^untoap  ^Bcnings  in  tlje  College  Cfcapel 

word ;  and  then  with  a  supreme  and  tranquil 
confidence  he  trusts  such  men  to  the  spirit  of 
the  truth  which  is  being  formed  within  them, 
perfectly  sure  that  they  will  be  steadied  and 
comforted  along  their  way  until  at  last  they 
shall  be  led  into  the  whole  truth. 

That  is  the  first  gift  of  Jesus  to  those  who 
turn  to  him.  There  are  many  things  which 
people  greatly  desire  to  get  from  religion,  and 
which  it  does  not  give.  They  want  to  have 
their  lives  made  easy  through  the  world ;  and 
Jesus  says  to  them  :  "  If  any  man  would  come 
after  me,  let  him  take  up  his  own  cross." 
They  want  to  have  their  problems  answered, 
and  Jesus  again  says :  "  What  I  do,  thou  know- 
est  not  now;  I  have  many  things  to  say  unto 
you,  but  ye  cannot  bear  them  now."  They 
want  to  have  their  burdens  lifted,  but  Jesus 
only  says  to  them:  "Come  unto  me, —  and 
I  promise,  not  that  you  shall  be  free  from  bur- 
dens, but  that  the  load  shall  be  so  fitted  to  your 
neck,  that  the  burden  you  still  must  carry 
shall  be  possible  to  bear."  What,  then,  does 
Jesus  offer  to  those  who  follow  him  ?  His  gift 
—  as  he  often  said  —  is  the  gift  of  life.  "  I  am 
come  that  they  may  have  life  and  life  more 
abundant."  But  life  is  not  given  full-grown. 

I02 


., 


gmntoap  (KiJtntnffB  m  tlje  College  Chapel 

Life  is  growth,  capacity,  promise,  vitality, 
health,  power  ;  a  process,  not  a  finality.  Over 
the  hill-sides,  in  the  chilly  Spring,  a  pale  trace 
of  color  touches  the  budding  trees.  Along  the 
streets  the  crocuses  bloom  where  the  snow 
has  hardly  gone.  Little  of  warmth  is  in  the 
air,  but  the  unfailing  procession  of  nature  is 
passing  over  the  cold  world  and  sweeping  it 
on  from  frost  to  flowers,  from  March  to  June. 
So  moves  the  procession  of  the  Holy  Ghost : — 

"  All  powerful  as  the  wind  it  comes, 
As  viewless  too." 

It  comes  to  people  as  cold  and  hard  as  the 
ground  in  March,  to  stir  their  latent  purposes 
and  wake  their  dormant  ideals  ;  and  even  while 
they  are  hopeless  of  any  melting  of  the  heart 
or  any  budding  of  the  hope,  the  spirit  of  the 
truth  is  hastening  the  growth  of  spring-time 
in  the  soul.  The  hasty  Peter,  the  questioning 
Nicodemus,  the  doubting  Thomas,  the  perse- 
cuting Saul,  on  each  by  slow  degrees, — and 
to  many  a  kindred  life  to-day  —  the  comfort 
of  the  truth  shines,  until  their  lives  are  like 
the  lengthening  days  which  make  one  sure 
that  after  all  the  Summer  is  not  very  faraway. 

Now  that  is  what  brings  the  only  substan- 
tial comfort  to  many  a  faulty,  hesitating,  half- 
103 


J&tmtoap  (Ktoetunfffli  in  tj)e  College  CJwpel 

awakened  soul.  It  has  been  disturbed  by  in- 
tellectual doubts;  it  has  been  beset  by  moral 
weakness ;  it  shrinks  from  the  truth  because 
the  truth  looked  uncomforting  or  uncomfort- 
able. The  last  thing  that  seemed  likely  is  that 
there  is  comfort  in  the  truth.  And  yet  in  the 
deeper  ways  of  experience,  there  is  absolutely 
no  comfort  so  substantial  as  the  assurance 
that  one  has  his  hold  on  something  which  is 
positively  and  eternally  true.  Thwarted  and 
puzzled  one  goes  his  way  through  life ;  but 
this  is  his  comfort,  —  that  the  spirit  of  the 
truth  is  with  him,  as  the  Master  promised, 
guiding  him  through  many  blunders  and  much 
ignorance,  as  with  the  grasp  of  a  firm  strong 
hand,  toward  the  whole  of  truth. 

And  when  is  this  mission  of  the  Comforter, 
this  procession  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  to  be  com- 
plete ?  When  is  the  prophecy  of  Jesus  to  be 
fulfilled,  and  the  life  that  follows  him  to  be  led 
into  all  truth?  Who  knows  when  or  where  this 
comfort  of  the  truth  is  to  be  fully  given  ?  Per- 
haps it  is  in  this  that  the  perfectness  of  the 
heavenly  world  is  to  be  found, — the  revelation 
at  last  of  things  as  they  really  are,  the  riddles 
of  life  at  last  answered,  the  disasters  of  ex- 
perience at  last  explained,  the  supreme  and 
104 


JSmirtap  (£tocmng;0  in  t|>e  College  Cfcapcl 

convincing  majesty  of  the  truth  discerned. 
So,  perhaps,  step  by  step,  the  work  of  Jesus 
Christ  is  to  fulfil  itself  in  many  a  patient  life ; 
from  loyalty  to  capacity ;  from  obedience  to 
power ;  from  the  teaching  of  the  Son  to  the 
teaching  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  on  and  on, — 
through  partial  knowledge  and  maturing  faith ; 
through  life,  through  death ;  until  at  last  the 
things  that  are  in  part  are  done  away  and  that 
which  is  perfect  comes,  and  we  see  not  in  a 
glass  darkly  but  face  to  face,  and  holding  the 
hand  of  the  spirit  of  the  truth  we  are  led  into 
the  presence  of  the  Truth  itself,  and  are  com- 
forted and  satisfied  when  we  awake  in  that 
likeness. 


°5 


VII 
THE  WEDDING   GARMENT 

And  when  the  king  came  in  to  see  the  guests,  he  saw  there 
a  man  which  had  not  on  a  wedding  garment,  and  hesaithunto 
him,  Friend,  how  earnest  thou  in  hither  not  having  a  wed- 
ding garment  ?  And  he  was  speechless.  Then  said  the  king 
to  the  servants,  Bind  him  hand  and  foot,  and  take  him  away 
and  cast  him  into  outer  darkness.  —  Matt,  xxn,  11-13. 

[HE  teaching  of  Jesus  concerning  the 
future  of  the  world  is  marked  by  the 
most  confident  and  unfaltering  hope. 
He  was  familiar  enough  with  the  tragedies  of 
life ;  he  was  a  man  of  sorrow  and  acquainted 
with  grief ;  he  had  much  to  do  with  people  who 
were  sick  or  sad  or  sinful ;  he  said  to  the  weary 
and  heavy-laden :  "Come  unto  me ; "  and  yet 
he  consistently  foresaw  a  better  world  and 
preached  the  Gospel  of  a  Kingdom  of  God. 
His  pictures  of  that  Kingdom  are  not  of  a  grey 
and  sombre,  but  of  a  sunny  and  even  festive 
scene.  It  was  to  be  like  a  great  supper  to  which 
all  who  would  come  were  freely  bidden  ;  like 
a  marriage  where  maidens  gather  with  dance 
106 


&tmta?  (RbeninffS  tn  tljc  College  C&apel 

and  song  ;  like  a  feast  spread  for  all  the  peo- 
ple of  the  city  by  the  bounty  of  a  generous 
king.  The  Gospel  is  not  one  of  comfort  and 
consolation  only.  Comforting  as  it  may  be 
in  trouble,  its  fundamental  note  is  one  of 
joy.  The  central  fact  of  life  to  Jesus  is  the 
bountiful  generosity  of  the  providence  of 
God. 

In  the  passage  where  my  text  occurs,  how- 
ever, Jesus  turns  from  these  descriptions  of 
the  Kingdom  and  speaks  of  those  who  are  in- 
vited to  be  its  guests.  First,  he  says,  there 
are  some  who,  when  these  resources  of  the 
world  are  offered  to  them,  make  light  of  the 
king's  bidding  and  go  their  way.  And  it  is  in- 
teresting to  observe  how,  in  a  single  stroke, 
the  motives  which  make  people  indifferent  to 
God's  invitations  are  laid  bare.  One  man  goes 
to  his  farm ;  he  is  preoccupied  by  his  daily 
care.  Another  remembers  his  merchandise  ; 
he  is  the  slave  of  his  business.  A  third  finds 
the  king's  summons  inconsistent  with  his  own 
mean  desires  and  will  not  even  listen  to  the 
messenger,  but  lays  hold  on  him  and  kills  him. 
So  it  is  now,  as  it  was  then.  The  preoccupa- 
tion of  the  mind  by  routine,  the  overwhelm- 
ing pressure  of  one's  business,  and  the  con- 
107 


gmntrap  ©toeniiiffs;  in  t&e  College  Cljapel 

scious  inconsistency  of  one's  own  way  of  life 
with  the  way  of  God,  — these  three  habits  of 
mind  still  make  light  of  the  king's  message. 
Possession  goes  its  way  to  its  farm ;  commer- 
cialism hides  among  its  merchandise  ;  and 
conscious  unworthiness  hates  the  very  re- 
minder of  God's  intention  and  strikes  God's 
messengers  dead  at  its  feet. 

But  then,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the  man  of 
my  text,  —  the  man  who  wanted  to  come  to 
the  feast,  but  who  was  not  fit  to  stay.  And 
the  story  points  out  that  he  knew  he  was 
not  fit  to  stay.  When  the  king  comes  in  to 
see  his  guests,  his  eye  falls  on  this  man  and 
observes  that  there  has  been  some  neglect. 
With  a  word  of  kindly  greeting  the  king  there- 
fore asks  :  "  Friend,  how  earnest  thou  in  hither 
not  having  on  a  wedding  garment  ? "  but  the 
man  has  nothing  to  say.  He  is,  we  read,  speech- 
less and  without  defence  ;  and  the  king's  tone 
deepens  to  severity  as  he  bids  his  servants  bind 
him  and  cast  him  out  from  among  the  company. 
What  was  it  that  gave  the  man  his  conscious- 
ness of  unfitness?  Why  was  it  so  shameful,  at  a 
feast  which  gathered  in  its  guests  from  the 
hedges  and  byways,  to  have  entered  without 
a  wedding  garment  ?  Why  did  not  the  man 
1 08 


&ttirtap  <£tocmit£0  in  tlje  College  C&aptl 

say  that  he  came  in  the  best  attire  he  had  ? 
Surely  the  limits  of  God's  hospitality  are 
not  those  of  polite  society,  or  the  judgments 
of  God  made  according  to  the  outward  ap- 
pearance. All  this  becomes  plain  when  one 
remembers  the  Oriental  custom  of  hospitality. 
To  each  guest,  as  he  entered,  there  had  been 
offered,  as  a  part  of  the  kingly  greeting,  an 
outer  robe  fit  for  the  occasion.  "Bring  forth 
the  best  robe,"  said  the  father  of  the  prodigal, 
when  he  made  a  feast  for  his  boy,  "  and  put  it 
on  him."  So  it  was  here.  The  wedding  gar- 
ment had  been  offered  to  this  man  as  he  en- 
tered with  the  rest,  and  it  had  been  refused. 
His  own  attire,  he  has  said,  was  good  enough. 
He  had  disregarded  the  condition  of  entrance 
and  had  rudely  crowded  in.  Then,  as  he  sits 
there  among  the  festive  company,  it  is  as 
though  he  reported  to  them  his  unkindly  and 
self-asserting  boast.  He  is  marked  out  among 
them  as  the  one  who  wanted  to  sit  at  the 
king's  feast  without  accepting  the  mark  of  the 
king's  guest.  He  had  wanted  to  get  the  re- 
sources of  life  without  conforming  to  the  con- 
ditions under  which  these  resources  were  of- 
fered. Without  the  wedding  garment  there 
could  be  no  sympathetic  participation  in  the 
109 


&tntfiap  (Ktoenuiffg  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

wedding  feast.  His  heart  was  a  stranger  in  the 
friendly  gathering,  and  the  outer  darkness  was 
the  place  where  his  darkened  spirit  naturally- 
belonged. 

Such  is  the  picturesque  language  in  which 
Jesus  brings  home  to  his  Oriental  hearers  a 
truth  on  which  he  repeatedly  dwells.  He  sets 
over  against  each  other  the  resources  of  life 
and  the  capacity  to  use  these  resources  ;  the 
feast  and  the  guest ;  the  outward  gift  and  the 
inward  fitness  to  receive  that  gift ;  the  envi- 
ronment, as  we  say,  and  the  individual ;  and 
he  recalls  attention  to  the  personal  prepared- 
ness without  which  the  most  generous  of  God's 
outward  feasts  is  spread  in  vain.  No  problem 
is  more  characteristic  of  the  present  time  than 
that  which  this  contrast  suggests.  Which  is 
the  determining  factor  of  experience,  the  out- 
ward opportunity  or  the  inward  discipline  ? 
Does  the  environment  make  the  man  or  is  the 
man  master  of  his  environment  ?  Is  character 
the  product  of  circumstances,  or  are  circum- 
stances the  instrument  of  character  ?  What  is 
one's  first  duty,  —  to  improve  conditions  or  to 
improve  himself ;  to  make  a  better  world  or  to 
make  a  better  man  ;  to  do  good  or  to  be  good  ? 
How  is  the  kingdom  of  God  to  come, —  by  the 
no 


&tmUap  <Etonung;0  in  tljc  College  Cljapel 

providing  of  the  wedding  feast,  or  by  the  ac- 
ceptance of  the  wedding  garment  ? 

Of  course,  it  must  be  said  at  once  that  these 
alternatives  cannot  be  regarded  as  fundamen- 
tal or  absolute.  Both  propositions  are  true. 
Circumstances  often  mould  character,  and 
character  often  conquers  circumstances.  Each 
scheme  for  making  a  better  world  contributes 
to  the  making  of  better  people  ;  each  personal 
achievement  of  education,  discipline,  or  thrift 
hastens  the  coming  of  a  better  world.  Yet 
there  remains,  at  any  given  time  or  place,  the 
problem  of  adjusting  these  two  factors  of  pro- 
gress and  of  assigning  to  each  its  j  ust  place  and 
force ;  and  here  we  meet  a  peril  of  the  mod- 
ern world  which,  according  to  this  parable, 
was  a  not  less  conspicuous  peril  in  the  time  of 
Jesus  Christ.  It  is  the  peril  of  externalism  ; 
the  anticipation  that  human  life  can  be  re- 
deemed from  the  outside ;  the  preparing  of 
the  wedding  feast,  and  the  neglecting  of  the 
wedding  garment. 

Modern  civilization  has  brought  in  its 
train  so  many  evils  and  wrongs  that  this  ab- 
sorbing interest  in  external  change  is  not 
only  inevitable  but  in  a  high  degree  bene- 
ficent. Unsanitary  factories  and  congested 
in 


Stmtta;  Cbeningfi  in  t&e  College  Chapel 

slums  ;  the  crowding  of  children  into  indus- 
try and  the  crowding  of  women  down  ;  the 
temptation  to  vice  and  the  curse  of  drink ;  — 
these  and  countless  other  tragedies  of  modern 
life  challenge  the  mind  and  heart  of  the  time 
to  make  a  world  more  fit  for  human  beings  to 
inhabit ;  and  social  service  and  reconstructive 
legislation  apply  themselves  to  spread  the  table 
of  decency  and  purity  with  enough  for  every 
human  life.  Better  housing  and  better  food  ; 
less  crowding  and  less  drink ;  more  parks  and 
baths ;  a  more  just  division  of  profits  and  a 
shorter  working-day ;  and  beyond  all  these 
mitigating  measures,  a  transformation  of  in- 
dustrial life  by  common  ownership  and  social 
justice  ;  —  by  one  or  another  or  all  of  these  so- 
cial schemes  the  feast  of  opportunity  is  to  be 
prepared  and  all  shall  share  the  bounty  of  an 
abundant  and  satisfying  world.  It  is  a  beauti- 
ful ideal  of  a  regenerated  society,  hardly  ap- 
proached in  the  imperative  note  of  its  sum- 
mons since  the  time  when  Jesus  preached  his 
gospel  of  the  Kingdom  of  God.  To  be  per- 
mitted to  live  in  the  age  of  the  social  con- 
science is  a  privilege  which  cannot  be  too 
highly  prized.  It  calls  one  from  introspection 
to  action,  from  self-interest  to  self-forgetful- 

112 


J&untoap  Cbcmnsc  in  t\>c  College  C&apcl 

ness,  from  the  dubious  task  of  saving  one's 
own  soul  to  the  happy  task  of  saving  the  less 
fortunate  by  one's  side. 

Yet,  no  one  who  has  any  part  in  this  great 
plan  of  social  salvation  can  help  detecting  in 
it  a  fallacy  which  brings  disappointment  and 
disillusion  to  many  a  sanguine  scheme.  Who 
are  the  people  that  can  undertake  this  mission 
of  social  saviours  ?  Are  they  the  same  people 
who  in  their  own  lives  are  ostentatious,  extra- 
vagant, and  self-indulgent  ?  Can  they  do  good 
without  being  good  ?  Can  they  be  saviours 
without  being  saved?  On  the  contrary,  the 
happy  opportunity  of  effective  social  service 
is  a  much  more  limited  privilege  than  is  com- 
monly supposed.  Not  every  one  who  wants  to 
serve  is  fit  to  serve.  Not  patronage,  or  alms- 
giving, or  organization,  can  lift  the  helpless  to 
self-help ;  but  sympathy,  experience  of  suffer- 
ing, the  contagion  of  purity,  the  communica- 
tion of  hope,  the  beauty  of  holiness.  "  After 
he  had  fasted  forty  days  and  forty  nights," 
it  has  been  cynically  said  of  amateurism  in 
poor-relief,  "  behold !  angels  came  and  patron- 
ized him."  This  is  one  aspect  of  the  fallacy 
of  philanthropy,  —  that  one  can  have  the  bless- 
ing of  serving  others  without  the  obligation 

"3 


JSmitfrap  Ctoeninffsi  in  fyt  College  C&apel 

to  discipline  and  train  himself ;  that  he  can 
enter  the  companionship  of  the  new  philan- 
thropy without  wearing  the  garment  of  pre- 
paredness. 

And  the  same  fallacy  is  seen  from  the  other 
side  in  those  to  whom  social  service  is  offered. 
Better  conditions  of  living  are  worth  all  the 
plans  and  pains  they  cost ;  the  pressure  of 
bad  environment  chokes  and  crushes  multi- 
tudes of  lives  ;  yet  it  is  impossible  to  maintain 
that  hostile  circumstances  are  always  fatal,  or 
favoring  circumstances  always  redemptive. 
Out  of  the  most  squalid  of  conditions  purity 
and  beauty  may  emerge,  as  a  water-lily  blos- 
soms out  of  a  slimy  pool;  behind  prosperity 
and  ease  may  lurk  the  deadliest  temptation, 
like  the  subtle  diseases  of  a  tropical  land. 
Better  housing,  better  industrial  conditions, 
shorter  hours  of  work,  insurance  against  un- 
employment, —  all  the  admirable  machinery 
of  social  reform,  —  becomes  ineffective  and 
disappointing  unless  it  be  accepted  and  util- 
ized by  industry,  frugality,  and  thrift.  The  new 
bath-tub  in  the  tenement  becomes  a  new  po- 
tato-bin ;  the  inducements  to  save  seem  a  plot 
of  the  employer ;  the  problem  of  the  unem- 
ployed becomes  the  far  more  difficult  problem 
114 


Smirtiap  (Etacnmjp  in  t&c  College  Cbapel 

of  the  unemployable.  In  short,  the  better 
world  must  be  met  and  used  by  better  people. 
"  A  golden  age,"  as  Herbert  Spencer  said, 
"cannot  be  made  of  leaden  instincts."  The 
social  problem  which  on  its  surface  is  econo- 
mic and  mechanical,  is  at  its  heart  personal 
and  ethical.  The  guest  at  the  wedding  feast 
must  wear  the  wedding  garment. 

This  truth  becomes  still  more  obvious  when 
one  recalls  the  extreme  statement  of  exter- 
nalism  which  appears  in  the  creed  of  social 
revolution.  One  of  the  pillars  of  orthodox  so- 
cialism is  the  doctrine  known  as  economic 
determinism,  or  the  conviction  that  economic 
conditions  and  changes  absolutely  prescribe  or 
determine  the  institutions,  opinions,  morals, 
and  faith  of  a  time  or  a  place.  "  It  is  not  the 
consciousness  of  men,"  Marx  said,  "that  de- 
termines their  existence,  but  on  the  contrary, 
their  social  existence  determines  their  con- 
sciousness." "Every  man,"  said  Bebel,  "is  a 
product  of  his  time  and  an  instrument  of  cir- 
cumstance." We  are,  in  short,  what  our  in- 
dustrial and  social  system  makes  us.  "Tell 
me  what  you  eat,  and  how  you  get  your  living," 
a  plain-spoken  agitator  has  said,  "  and  I  will 
tell  you  what  you  are."  If,  however,  we  are  so 

"5 


^ttnUap  Cbeninfffi  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

completely  the  creatures  of  prevailing  economic 
conditions,  then  the  only  hope  of  human  pro- 
gress is  in  modifying  or  transforming  those 
conditions;  and  the  mitigations  of  philanthropy 
or  the  appeal  to  self-help  under  conditions  as 
they  now  are  seems,  as  has  been  said,  like 
"laying  a  poultice  on  a  broken  leg."  "The 
wise  reformer  should  apply  himself  to  eco- 
nomic revolution  exclusively."  Let  the  table 
of  life  be  spread  with  enough  for  all ;  and  the 
new  bounty  will  create  a  new  human  nature 
to  use  and  enjoy  it. 

There  is,  of  course,  much  to  justify  this  new 
demand  for  radical  change.  Evil  conditions 
have  their  terrible  consequences  in  human  de- 
gradation. It  is  hard  to  be  hopeful  and  thrifty 
without  a  living  wage,  or  to  be  chaste  when  liv- 
ing with  five  in  a  room.  It  is  almost  as  hard  to 
be  unselfish,  disciplined,  and  unspoiled  under 
conditions  of  extreme  luxury  and  ease.  Eco- 
nomic want  and  economic  excess  are  equally 
perilous  to  integrity  and  self-respect.  The 
crushing  squalor  of  the  slums  is  more  than 
matched  in  its  demoralizing  influence  by  the 
selfish  vulgarity  of  the  reckless  rich.  What  a 
startling  fact  it  is,  for  example,  that  the  insti- 
tution of  marriage  is  least  endangered  among 
116 


J&tmtoap  (£toening;s  in  tfje  €a\k%t  C&apel 

the  poor,  while  the  daily  newspaper  reeks 
with  the  record  of  defiant  shamelessness 
among  the  most  favored  lives  !  But  to  main- 
tain that  economic  conditions  are  a  prison 
from  which  character  cannot  escape,  that  des- 
tiny is  irrevocably  fixed  by  circumstances,  is  to 
know  little  of  human  history  or  human  nature. 
No  economic  condition  is  so  hopeless  that 
there  may  not  emerge  from  it  the  capacity  for 
self-help,  initiative,  and  leadership.  No  cir- 
cumstances can  altogether  obstruct  ambition, 
industry,  and  hope.  It  is  possible,  Marcus 
Aurelius  said,  to  be  good  even  in  a  palace.  It 
is  possible  also,  as  many  honorable  lives  have 
proved,  to  overcome  extreme  poverty  and 
dense  ignorance  by  persistency  and  thrift. 
The  force  of  economic  determinism  is  met 
by  the  superior  force  of  human  determin- 
ation. The  individual  converts  his  hostile  en- 
vironment into  a  servant  or  ally.  The  man 
with  the  wedding  garment  may  find  in  a  very 
meagre  meal  the  material  for  a  wedding-feast. 
The  doctrine  of  economic  determinism  has  its 
most  serious  effect  in  relieving  the  individual 
of  blame.  The  fault,  he  concludes,  is  in  his 
stars,  not  in  himself.  He  has  but  two  possible 
alternatives,  —  either  to  overturn  the  existing 

"7 


gmntoap  ©Bettings  in  t|>e  College  Clmpel 

order,  or  —  if  that  ideal  must  be  postponed — 
to  let  it  have  its  way  with  him,  and  to  be  as  idle 
or  vicious  as  he  may  desire.  The  hope  of  all 
sound  philanthropy  and  reform,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  to  discover  the  person  behind  the 
economic  order  and  to  wake  his  slumbering 
faculties  to  self -development  and  self -redemp- 
tion. The  feast  of  a  better  future  will  be 
spread  in  vain  if  better  people  are  not  pre- 
pared to  enter  it. 

We  turn  back,  then,  to  the  parable  in  which 
Jesus  was  teaching  his  doctrine  of  the  King- 
dom. He  would  have  been  the  last  to  depre- 
ciate the  effect  of  circumstance  on  character. 
A  great  part  of  his  brief  ministry  was  devoted 
to  giving  people  a  better  chance.  He  went  his 
way  up  and  down  the  land,  healing  and  lifting 
unfortunate  lives.  God  had  anointed  him,  he 
said,  to  bring  release  to  the  captive,  and  liberty 
to  them  that  were  bruised.  The  Kingdom  of 
God  was  to  be  an  external  condition  of  social 
unity  and  peace.  Yet  behind  all  change  of 
conditions,  Jesus  was  looking  for  a  change  in 
the  human  heart.  He  had  a  passion  for  per- 
sonality. He  saved  people  one  at  a  time.  He 
was  concerned  to  make  the  world  less  hard, 
but  still  more  concerned  to  make  people  who 
118 


Smnfcap  ©toeninp  in  tbc  College  Cfmpel 

could  master  a  hard  world.  The  Kingdom  of 
God  was  to  come  in  external  form,  but  the 
same  Kingdom  was  also  to  come  within.  The 
wedding-feast  was  to  be  offered,  but  the  guest 
must  wear  a  wedding  garment.  In  short,  the 
law  of  progress  is  a  two-fold  law ;  and  the 
principle  of  externalism  states  but  one  half  of 
the  whole.  Each  man  finds  in  the  world  what 
he  looks  for ;  his  circumstances  become  a  re- 
flection of  his  mind. 

A  young  man,  for  instance,  comes  to  the 
great  city  to  make  his  living,  and  its  abundant 
opportunities  are  freely  offered  to  him  as  to 
its  guest.  But  what  does  the  youth  find  in  the 
city  ?  Is  it  a  place  of  low  companionships  and 
solicitations  to  vice  ;  or  is  it  a  centre  of  educa- 
tion and  art,  of  libraries  and  museums,  of  re- 
ligious activity  and  social  service  ?  It  is  both  ; 
and  the  reaction  of  the  city  on  the  young  man's 
life  is  the  response  to  his  antecedent  discipline 
or  desire.  Without  the  garment  of  prepared- 
ness he  is  unfit  for  the  city's  feast ;  and  he  soon 
finds  himself  in  the  dreadful  darkness  where 
the  lost  souls  of  the  city  hide. 

Another  young  man  comes,  in  the  same  way, 
to  the  University,  where  the  ample  feast  of 
education  is  spread,  and  finds  it  a  place  of  grave 
119 


I&tutfrap  (Kbeninffc  in  t&e  Coilep  C&apel 

temptations,  while  men  at  his  side  discover  in 
the  same  circumstances  liberty  and  joy  for  the 
mind,  the  imagination,  and  the  will.  No  change 
in  the  machinery  of  the  University  can  con- 
vert a  shirk  into  a  scholar.  One  may  be  fitted, 
as  we  say,  for  college,  but  not  be  fit  for  col- 
lege. Antecedent  to  the  sharing  of  the  feast 
must  be  the  acceptance  of  the  spirit  of  the 
feast.  "Take  him  away,"  it  should  be  said  of 
one  who  has  entered  here  by  mistake,  "  and 
cast  him  into  the  outer  darkness."  He  cannot 
use  the  privilege  to  which  he  was  bidden  ;  and 
the  freedom  of  the  scholar  is  not  for  him. 

Such  is  the  teaching  of  Jesus  concerning 
the  world  and  the  individual,  environment  and 
character,  the  feast  and  the  guest.  The.  blind 
eye  looks  on  a  world  of  darkness ;  the  deaf 
ear  listens  in  vain  for  the  harmonies  of  the 
world.  Self-satisfaction  and  self-conceit  are 
impenetrable  to  opportunity.  The  guest  that 
is  not  ready  belongs  in  the  outer  darkness.  In 
earlier  English  it  used  to  be  said  that  the  attire 
one  wore  was  his  "  habit,"  and  that  a  man's 
habit  was  grave  or  gay.  The  parable  of  Jesus 
reverses  this  use  of  language.  The  habit  of 
one's  life  clothes  it  like  a  garment  and  marks 
the  man  for  what  he  is.  If  he  habitually  wear 
120 


gmntoap  ©nemnfffi  in  tbe  College  Cbapcl 

what  the  Psalm  calls  "the  garment  of  praise," 
it  redeems  his  life  from  the  "spirit  of  heavi- 
ness." If  he  be,  as  the  New  Testament  says, 
"clothed  upon"  with  purity  of  heart,  then, 
where  others  see  only  confusion  or  despair, 
he  has  the  blessedness  of  seeing  God.  The 
habit  of  life  attires  one  for  the  feast  of  life. 
Character  is  the  key  of  destiny.  They  that 
are  ready  go  in  to  the  marriage,  and  the  door 
is  shut. 

And  if,  finally,  it  be  asked  how  one  shall 
gain  this  inward  preparedness  which  is  the 
condition  of  entrance  into  a  better  world, 
then  the  parable  answers  this  question  also. 
The  same  Lord,  it  teaches,  who  spreads  the 
wedding-feast  offers  the  wedding  garment. 
Not  the  world  alone,  with  its  resources  and 
opportunities,  is  His  gift ;  but  the  capacity  to 
use  that  world,  the  habit  of  mind  which  in- 
terprets and  controls  experience — this,  too, 
is  a  gift  from  Him.  Here  is  precisely  where 
the  province  of  religion  becomes  distinguish- 
able from  other  spheres  of  human  life.  To 
shape  and  order  the  circumstances  of  life  is  the 
task  of  politics,  of  economics,  of  commerce, 
of  art.  The  servants  of  God  who  are  trained 
to  such  work  spread  the  table  of  God's  abun- 

121 


gmntoap  (KbeninffB  in  tfre  College  Cjjapel 

dance  and  make  it  ample,  generous,  and  beau- 
tiful. It  is  an  essential  contribution  to  the 
creation  of  the  better  world.  The  Kingdom  of 
God  is  to  be  like  a  great  feast  prepared  for  a 
king's  son.  But  to  religion  is  given  the  pre- 
liminary task  of  offering  the  habit  of  mind 
and  will  which  fits  one  to  use  the  world. 
The  work  of  religion  is  not  that  of  economics 
or  social  science.  The  Christian  Church  is 
not  a  Trade  Union  or  a  political  party  or  a 
socialist  club.  The  religious  life  is  not  a  change 
of  circumstance,  but  a  change  of  heart.  A  man, 
in  all  modesty  and  self-distrust,  dedicates  his 
will  to  the  will  of  God,  and  then  the  same  cir- 
cumstances of  life  which  were  unendurable  and 
embittering  become  the  way  to  courage  and 
peace.  The  changed  heart  looks  out  upon  the 
world,  and  the  world  itself  looks  changed  and 
new.  "  He  that  willeth  to  do  the  will,"  it  is 
written,  "  shall  know  of  the  doctrine."  It  is 
true  of  all  the  varied  experience  of  life.  The 
will  to  do  the  will  opens  the  way  to  know  the 
doctrine.  The  garment  of  preparedness  gives 
one  a  place  at  the  King's  feast. 

And  perhaps  it  is  not  in  this  world  alone 
that  the  habit  one  wears  has  this  transform- 
ing power.   Perhaps,  in  the  mysterious  order- 

122 


Smrtiap  (Etocmiifffl  in  tlje  Collrje  Cbapel 

ing  of  a  future  life,  there  need  be  no  such 
arbitrary  separation  of  souls  as  is  commonly 
conceived.  Perhaps,  while  the  same  welcome  is 
for  all,  there  are  some  who  simply  find  them- 
selves not  fit  to  stay.  What  we  call  heaven 
and  hell  may  be  but  one's  own  self-judgment 
wrought  by  one's  own  habit  of  mind.  When  the 
King  comes  in  togreet  his  guestsand  sees  there 
a  man  who  has  not  willed  to  do  the  will,  he  has 
but  to  say,  very  gently :  "  Friend,  how  earnest 
thou  in  hither  ? "  and  the  self-convicted  soul 
seeks  the  darkness  where  it  belongs.  And 
then  the  same  Master  of  the  feast  may  greet 
the  man  who  has  covered  his  own  unworthi- 
ness  with  the  garment  of  consecration,  and 
say  to  him  :  "Thou  hast  been  faithful  over  a 
few  things.  I  will  make  thee  ruler  over  many 
things.  Thou  wearest  the  habit  I  have  offered. 
Enter  into  the  joy  of  thy  Lord." 


123 


VIII 
THE  SHALLOWS   AND   THE  DEEP1 

And  Simon  said  unto  him,  Master,  we  have  toiled  all  the 
night  and  have  taken  nothing.  .  .  .  He  said  unto  Simon, 
Launch  out  into  the  deep  and  let  down  your  nets  for  a 
draught.  —  Luke  v,  5,  4. 


§^^§HIS  was  probably  not  the  first  meeting 
of  Jesus  with  these  fishermen.  In  the 
Fourth  Gospel  we  read  that  one  of 
them,  Andrew,  had  already  come  to  Jesus, 
bringing  with  him  his  brother  Simon,  and  that 
Jesus,  looking  upon  them,  said:  "Thou  art 
Simon  ;  thou  shalt  be  called  Cephas,  a  stone." 
It  appears,  therefore,  that  the  first  disciples, 
though  they  had  already  welcomed  the  new 
teacher,  had  not  attached  themselves  to  him 
so  completely  as  to  abandon  their  old  vocations. 
They  heard  his  message,  and  answered,  "  We 
have  found  the  Messiah " ;  and  then  they 
went  back  to  their  fishing  as  though  little 
had  occurred  to  change  their  lives.  When 
Jesus  comes  to  them  a  second  time  they  are 

1  Cf.  Mornings  in  the  College  Chapel,  Second  Series,  p.  78. 
124 


gmntoap  ©tocnincrd  in  t^c  Collie  Cfcapcl 

sitting  on  the  shore  washing  their  nets,  with 
their  thoughts  still  bent  upon  their  business. 
"Master,"  they  say,  "We  have  toiled  all  the 
night  and  have  taken  nothing." 

What  a  shadow  of  disappointment  and  fore- 
boding must  have  swept  across  the  mind  of 
Jesus  as  he  found  his  first  words  taken  so 
lightly  as  this  ?  What  he  needed  was  a  band  of 
followers  who  should  sacrifice  everything  to 
spread  his  gospel;  and  what  he  found  was  that 
the  first  men  who  welcomed  that  gospel  had  no 
plan  of  sacrificing  for  it  anything.  They  had 
taken  the  message  of  comfort  to  themselves, 
but  had  not  thought  of  themselves  as  the 
apostles  of  that  comfort ;  and  had  gone  back 
with  their  own  comfort  to  their  own  fishing 
along  the  margin  of  their  own  sea.  The 
teaching  had  not  been  refused,  but  its  scope 
and  depth  had  not  been  discerned.  Then 
Jesus  comes  upon  them  a  second  time,  as  they 
sit  on  the  shore  in  the  self-centred  despond- 
ency of  their  timid  fishing  ;  and  one  of  those 
sudden  inspirations  seems  to  have  come  to 
him  which  made  him  so  often  find  a  parable 
of  his  teaching  in  the  familiar  scenes  which 
met  his  eye.  One  day  it  was  the  sower  striding 
along  the  hillside  which  gave  a  text  for  his 

125 


gmnfcap  ©tantaff*  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

discourse;  again,  it  was  the  lilies  skirting  the 
foot-path  where  he  walked  ;  again,  it  was  the 
deep,  cool  spring  which  bubbled  up  within 
the  well  of  Jacob.  So,  on  this  day,  Jesus  looks 
across  the  broad  lake,  stretching  before  him 
in  the  sunlight  to  the  distant  hills,  and  it  seems 
to  him  the  very  picture  of  the  broad,  deep, 
shining  message  to  which  he  desired  to  sum- 
mon these  half-hearted  fishermen.  Here  they 
were,  plying  their  trade  along  the  shallows, 
when  the  deep  waters  were  inviting  them  to 
more  heroic  adventures  and  more  rewarding 
aims.  Was  it  not  the  same  with  the  great 
mission  to  which  he  hoped  to  call  them  ? 
They  had  indeed  pushed  out  a  little  way  to 
greet  him  with  their  welcome ;  but  soon  they 
had  retreated  with  empty  nets  and  empty 
hearts  ;  and  now  they  sat  there  discouraged 
because  they  had  brought  no  fish  to  shore. 
Then  Jesus  teaches  them  through  the  parable 
of  their  own  vocation  what  they  had  not 
learned  through  his  direct  command.  "  Launch 
out  into  the  deep,"  he  says,  "and  let  down 
your  nets  for  a  draught."  Make  the  greater 
venture  for  the  sake  of  the  greater  cause.  It 
is  as  though  one  should  come  to-day  into  some 
little  seashore  village,  where  the  townsfolk 
126 


iSmntoap  <£toeninffg  in  t&c  College  C&apcl 

made  a  scanty  living  within  their  own  shallow 
bay,  and  should  tell  them  for  the  first  time  of 
the  fleets  of  sturdy  vessels  which  put  forth  to 
the  distant  Banks  and  of  the  myriad  colonies 
of  fish  that  were  waiting  there.  "Launch  out 
into  the  deep,"  such  a  messenger  would  say ; 
"  leave  to  your  children  and  your  old  men  the 
small  concerns  of  these  shallow^  waters,  and 
venture  forth  into  a  business  which  brings  a 
man's  reward  for  a  man's  work."  Those  who 
should  follow  Jesus  must  learn,  he  knew,  all 
the  perils  of  the  deep  ;  they  were  to  be  storm- 
tossed  and  afraid ;  but  they  were  to  have 
also  the  large  experience  of  those  who,  as 
the  Psalmist  says,  "do  business  in  great 
waters."  Their  lives  had  been  shallow  and 
shut-in  like  their  bay ;  they  were  to  be  deep 
and  broad  like  the  sea.  They  had  not  half 
used  their  powers ;  they  were  to  have  the 
happiness  of  a  work  which  needed  more  than 
all  their  powers.  They  had  been  as  those  who 
catch  minnows ;  they  should  be  of  those  who 
catch  men.  The  first  call  of  Jesus  had  left 
them  in  the  shallows;  the  second  call  of 
Jesus  was  a  summons  to  the  deep.  "  And  from 
this  time,"  we  read,  "they  forsook  all  and 
followed  him." 

127 


i&ttntrap  ©beninp  in  t|>e  College  Cljapel 

"Launch  out  into  the  deep !  "  As  one  sur- 
veys the  signs  of  the  present  time  he  is  at  first 
impressed  by  the  marvellous  increase  of  power 
which  it  exhibits ;  the  multiplication  of  agen- 
cies for  production  and  communication,  the 
expansion  of  efficiency  by  invention  and  dis- 
covery, the  gift  to  the  individual  of  a  new 
world  to  use.  Never  was  social  life  so  organ- 
ized, the  machinery  of  life  so  perfect,  the  scope 
of  personal  service  so  great,  the  privilege  of 
education  so  universal,  the  happiness  of  cul- 
ture so  accessible,  or  the  sphere  of  religion  so 
central,  rational,  or  persuasive.  Nothing  could 
be  more  contrary  to  the  fact,  in  this  country 
at  least,  than  the  complaint  of  social  agitators 
that  the  world  is  going  from  bad  to  worse, 
that  the  chances  of  life  are  diminished,  and 
the  vast  majority  of  men  condemned  to  ser- 
vitude and  despair.  Hardship,  injustice,  and 
cruelty  enough  —  God  knows  —  remain ;  and 
it  is  the  task  of  every  honest  reformer  to  re- 
cognize and  abate  them ;  but  in  a  fluid  civili- 
zation like  that  of  the  United  States,  it  is 
impossible  to  maintain  that  conditions  are 
permanently  fixed,  or  opportunity  denied,  or 
social  hope  illusory.  In  spite  of  many  and 
grievous  wrongs,  it  is  not  a  decadent,  but  an 
128 


H>tmtoap  (5tantnffG  in  t\\t  Collcse  C&apel 

advancing  world.  Civilization  is  not  on  its  way 
down,  but  on  its  way  up.  The  new  note  of 
education,  industry,  and  religion  is  a  note  of 
hope.  The  social  problem  of  the  present  age 
must,  it  is  true,  include  the  providing  of  con- 
ditions which  are  fit  for  human  lives  ;  but,  for 
the  educated  and  privileged  at  least,  the  more 
immediate  problem  is  that  of  utilizing  the  un- 
precedented opportunities  which  are  as  yet 
unexplored  and  even  unknown. 

And  if  this  —  in  large  outline  and  with 
many  sad  exceptions  —  is  the  dominant  char- 
acter of  the  present  age,  what  is  the  cardinal 
sin  with  which  people  so  living  must  be 
charged  ?  It  is  not  a  general  degeneration  of 
morals,  like  the  decline  of  Rome,  with  which 
this  age  is  often  compared.  On  the  contrary, 
the  heart  of  the  time  is  sound ;  and  in  spite  of 
excesses  of  luxury  and  restlessness  of  temper, 
the  main  movement  of  the  age  is  toward  so- 
cial responsibility  and  industrial  peace.  Yet,  as 
one  compares  the  gifts  which  the  present  age 
so  lavishly  offers  and  the  meagre  acceptance 
of  them  by  those  thus  blessed,  the  contrast  be- 
comes humiliating.  The  sin  of  the  times  is  not 
its  wickedness,  but  its  shallowness  ;  the  small 
uses  of  great  things ;  the  meagre  acceptance  of 
129 


JSmnfcap  (EtocnmffS  in  tljc  College  C&apel 

the  call  to  the  deep.  The  astonishing  resources 
of  the  world  have  become  as  familiar  as  the 
blue  Lake  of  Galilee  was  to  the  fishermen  on 
its  banks  ;  but  the  mind  of  the  age  sits  on 
the  beach  of  its  opportunity  and  washes  its 
empty  nets  along  the  shore.  To  such  a  time, 
then,  comes  the  summons  of  Jesus  to  launch 
out  from  the  trivial,  the  timid,  the  half-hearted 
use  of  life,  and  to  let  down  the  nets  of  expe- 
rience into  the  deep  places  where  they  were 
meant  to  go. 

Let  us  listen  to  this  message,  as  we  wait  on 
the  shore  of  life,  and  look  out  toward  the  toss- 
ing waves  of  problems  and  needs  which  make 
up  the  modern  world.  Here  —  and  nearest  to 
us — is  the  academic  life,  with  its  special  priv- 
ileges and  peculiar  temptations,  —  a  bay  of 
opportunity  opening  into  the  ocean  of  learn- 
ing which  lies  just  beyond.  What  is  the  most 
familiar  and  characteristic  failing  of  men  at  the 
University  ?  It  is  not,  as  is  often  fancied,  their 
yielding  to  positive  temptations  or  flagrant 
sins.  Nothing  could  be  farther  from  the  fact 
than  to  picture  University  life  as  peculiarly 
tempted  or  exceptionally  vicious.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  is  peculiarly  sheltered  and  exception- 
ally pure.  The  conditions  of  a  University  are 
130 


&mtfjap  CtoeniiiffS  in  t|>c  College  Cbapel 

incomparably  less  gross  and  degrading  than 
those  which  must  be  met  by  men  of  the  same 
age  in  the  business  world.  The  chief  tempta- 
tion of  college  life,  as  a  great  teacher  has  said, 
is  "the  temptation  to  excellence." 

Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  the  purposes  of  the 
University  are  defeated,  for  many  men,  by  a 
more  superficial  and  an  elementary  fault.  It  is 
the  small  use  of  the  great  opportunity ;  the 
easy  contentment  found  along  the  margin  of 
the  academic  life,  while  its  deep  waters  are  un- 
explored. A  youth  may  stand  on  the  very  edge 
of  this  busy  world  of  learning  and  research,  of 
happy  work  and  inalienable  rewards,  and  not 
even  lift  his  eyes  from  the  beach  where  he  is 
playing  and  paddling  in  the  shallows.  The 
great  game  of  the  scholars  is  going  on  before 
him  with  all  its  intensity  and  delight,  and,  if 
he  sees  it  at  all,  it  is  from  the  benches,  as  a 
languid  looker-on.  Nothing  is  more  dishearten- 
ing than  to  watch  a  man  drifting  thus  through 
his  years  at  the  University,  like  a  bit  of  drift- 
wood tossed  by  each  casual  wave  and  thrown 
up  at  last  on  the  shore  ;  and  nothing,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  so  reassuring  to  one's  faith  in 
freedom  of  learning  as  to  see  a  youth,  under 
some  new  inspiration  of  study  or  teacher  or 


gmntrap  ©bening*  tn  t|?e  College  Cfcapel 

companionship,  wake  from  his  inactivity  or  in- 
difference and  realize  what  a  world  it  is  in 
which  his  happy  lot  is  cast.  The  call  of  the 
Master  comes  to  him,  as  it  came  to  the  fisher- 
men of  Galilee,  and  he  lifts  up  his  eyes  to  the 
sea  of  privilege  by  which  he  stands,  and,  with 
a  glad  obedience  and  a  scholar's  daring, 
launches  his  own  intellectual  life  into  an  un- 
tried and  boundless  deep. 

Nor  is  it  only  at  the  beginning  of  one's  ac- 
ademic life  that  this  call  should  be  heard.  The 
specialization  of  studies  which  every  scholar 
must  welcome,  brings  with  it  the  permanent 
temptation  to  a  shut-in,  truncated,  fragment- 
ary culture,  which  mistakes  small  problems  for 
great  When  one  considers  how  the  path  to 
academic  standing  lies  through  a  Doctor's  de- 
gree, and  then  examines  the  subjects  which 
lead  to  that  degree,  it  becomes  plain  that  in 
making  scholars  we  may  be  spoiling  men,  and 
that  the  profession  of  the  scholar,  instead  of 
being  like  the  bold  adventure  of  an  explorer 
in  uncharted  seas,  may  be  like  the  trade  of 
a  clam-digger,  earning  his  meagre  livelihood 
along  the  shoals  and  flats  of  learning.  Schol- 
arship, it  is  true,  cannot  be  too  exact  or  micro- 
scopic ;  separatism  and  concentration  must 
132 


fSmntoap  (Etoeninp  in  tljc  College  Cfcapel 

increase  as  knowledge  widens ;  but  the  test  of 
a  scholar  is  his  capacity  to  associate  the  frag- 
ment which  he  masters  with  the  whole  of 
truth  to  which  it  belongs,  and  to  keep  the 
channel  open  from  the  little  bay  in  which  he 
works  to  the  great  sea  of  which  it  is  a  part. 
To  leave  that  channel  blocked  or  uncharted 
is  to  become,  not  a  scholar,  but  a  pedagogue, 
a  critic,  a  drudge.  Each  group  of  scholars 
tends  its  own  nets  on  its  own  beach  ;  but  be- 
yond the  dividing  headlands  opens  the  unity 
of  learning,  and  into  each  separate  vocation 
flows  the  tide  of  truth  to  cleanse  and  deepen 
each  special  task. 

Let  us  listen,  once  more,  to  this  call  of  Jesus, 
as  it  may  be  heard  among  the  social  customs 
and  tendencies  of  the  present  time.  As  one 
turns  from  the  vocation  of  scholars  to  more 
general  conditions  of  intellectual  life,  what 
does  he  observe  about  reading  and  readers  ? 
He  observes  that,  for  millions  of  civilized  and 
educated  people,  the  invention  of  the  printing- 
press  contributes  nothing  to  the  daily  nutri- 
tion of  the  mind  beyond  the  consumption  of 
two  daily  newspapers,  or  of  one  which  is  suf- 
ficiently swollen  to  meet  the  needs  of  the 
Lord's  Day.  Now  the  newspaper-habit  is  not 

133 


J§>wtirap  €benmg;s;  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

to  be  regarded  as  intrinsically  a  bad  habit. 
It  is  an  enormous  advantage  to  a  modern  man 
to  have  the  news  of  the  world  spread  before 
him  each  day.  Yet  it  is  certain  that  the  mind 
which  is  fed  exclusively  on  this  predigested 
food  becomes  progressively  enfeebled  as  an 
organ  of  thought.  It  comes  to  mistake  facts 
for  ideas ;  information  for  inspiration  •  small 
things  for  great ;  gossip  for  knowledge  ;  and 
at  last  it  is  content  to  dabble  as  a  smatterer 
in  the  shoals  of  culture  or  to  befoul  itself  with 
social  mud.  There  is  but  one  experience  which 
strengthens  the  fibre  of  the  mind,  and  that 
is  an  association  with  greater  minds.  One 
master  of  literature  made  a  friend,  one  pro- 
phet of  idealism  received,  brings  with  him  in- 
tellectual health,  self-confidence  and  vision. 
Sanity  of  mind,  balance,  insight,  the  worth  of 
education  itself,  depends  upon  the  resolute 
determination  to  push  out  from  the  shallows 
of  modern  literature  to  some  serious  adven- 
ture in  its  deep. 

And  if  this  be  true  of  readers,  it  is  no  less 
true  of  writers,  and  of  the  aims  of  literature 
itself.  As  one  reviews  the  tendencies  of  mod- 
ern fiction,  drama,  and  art,  he  is  met  by  a 
characteristic  which  is  in  itself  wholesome 
i34 


&tmfiap  dfrjentngfi  in  tbe  College  Cfoapcl 

and  reassuring.  It  is  the  striving  for  truth, 
the  note  of  reality,  the  principle  popularly 
known  as  realism.  Whatever  is  true  has  artistic 
value.  Fiction  reports  modern  life  just  as  it 
is ;  drama  reflects  the  emotion  of  real  people ; 
the  artist  works  in  the  open  air.  The  return 
to  Nature  is  sincere  and  undisguised.  What 
is  it,  then,  which  afflicts  so  much  of  this  real- 
ism with  a  taint  of  coarseness,  superficiality, 
and  cynicism,  and  makes  it  an  instrument  of 
the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  Devil  ?  It  is  the 
presupposition  that  the  realities  of  life  are 
sordid,  ugly,  and  base ;  that  to  be  sincere  one 
must  be  vulgar ;  that  human  nature  is  exposed 
only  at  low-water  mark ;  that  the  controlling 
motives  of  experience  are  sensual,  animal, 
muddy,  and  foul.  Types  and  incidents  thus 
described  are,  indeed,  not  without  reality. 
They  live,  but  they  live  trivially,  morbidly, 
sensually.  The  sin  of  realism  is  not  its  un- 
truthfulness, or  even  its  viciousness,  but  its 
shallowness.  It  analyzes  the  mud,  and  misses 
the  stars.  How  hungry  the  heart  of  the  time 
has  grown  for  some  reassurance  of  the  natural- 
ism of  nobility ;  for  a  renaissance  of  romance ; 
for  heroes  who  deserve  to  be  honored  and 
heroines  who  deserve  to  be  loved !   "  The  issue 

*35 


i&mntoap  ©bemnp  in  t&e  College  Chapel 

between  art  and  bestiality,"  William  Morris 
wrote,  with  reference  to  Swinburne,  "  is  so 
momentous  that  nothing  can  take  serious  hold 
of  people,  or  should  do  so,  but  that  which  is 
rooted  deepest  in  reality  and  .  .  .  forced  out 
of  a  man  of  deep  feeling  because  of  its  in- 
nate strength  and  vision."  Each  breatfrof  this 
fresher  air  rejuvenates  fiction  and  art.  We 
have  had  enough  of  literary  scavengers,  pick- 
ing out  scraps  of  sin  from  the  refuse-heap  of 
human  character.  The  great  days  of  intellec- 
tual achievement  are  to  come,  as  they  always 
have  come,  when  the  realism  of  the  spirit  sup- 
plants the  confessions  of  the  flesh,  and  genius 
trusts  itself  to  launch  out  from  the  shallows 
of  experience  into  the  mystery  and  romance 
of  the  spiritual  deep. 

It  was  not,  however,  of  the  intellectual  or  the 
social  world  that  Jesus  was  thinking  when  he 
called  his  friends  to  follow  him.  He  was  con- 
cerned^with  the  expansion  of  religious  experi- 
ence into  the  deep  places  of  communion  with 
God.  He  had  brought  them  his  message  and 
they  had  retreated  with  it  to  their  self-centred 
needs,  as  they  might  retreat  from  the  dangers 
of  the  lake  to  the  safety  of  the  beach.  If, 
then,  the  same  Master  came  again  to  those 
136 


^tmUap  &beninff0  in  the  College  Cljaprl 

who  call  themselves  his  followers,  would  it 
not  be  with  the  same  pity  and  rebuke  ?  The 
confession  of  the  modern  Church  to  its  Mas- 
ter is  not  one  of  disloyalty  or  refusal.  Never 
were  there  more  evidences  of  acceptance 
and  conformity ;  never  so  many  organizations 
for  Christian  worship,  or  so  many  schemes 
and  programmes  of  Christian  work.  But  to 
what  small  issues  is  the  mind  of  the  Church 
directed,  and  what  meagre  use  is  made  of 
the  dynamic  of  religion  ?  Walk,  some  day, 
along  a  village  green  or  down  a  city  street, 
where  the  church  spires  stand  like  sentinels 
to  defend  the  faith,  and  consider  the  reason 
for  their  divisions,  and  the  tests  of  their  dis- 
cipleship.  Forms  of  worship,  ecclesiastical 
machinery,  sacraments,  orders,  authority  of 
bishops  or  presbyters,  baptism  by  sprinkling 
or  immersion,  the  Lord's  Supper  as  magic  or 
as  symbol ;  —  such  are  the  nets  which  Christ- 
ian communions,  each  on  its  own  beach,  are 
busily  washing,  as  though  there  were  no  deep 
waters  of  the  present  age  which  the  Christian 
Church  was  called  to  explore.  One  need  not 
protest  that  these  affairs  of  internal  order  and 
discipline  are  either  unreal  or  discreditable, 
but,  when  one  lifts  up  his  eyes  and  sees  the 

i37 


JSmntoap  (Ktoctunfffi  in  tfje  College  C&apel 

agitations  and  issues  which  perplex  the  mod- 
ern mind,  how  insignificant  such  controversies 
seem  !  "  What  conclusions  they  may  reach," 
a  distinguished  theologian  has  said,  "is  un- 
important ;  the  only  thing  of  real  importance 
is  that  they  should  come  to  an  end." 

Here,  beyond  doubt,  is  for  many  young 
men  the  most  repelling  aspect  of  Christian 
discipleship.  It  is  not  that  the  Christian  re- 
ligion asks  too  much  of  them,  but  that  it  does 
not  ask  enough.  It  asks  their  enthusiasm  for 
sentimental  emotions  or  administrative  de- 
tails, when  they  want  a  call  to  heroism  and 
an  adventure  worthy  of  a  man.  They  turn 
away  from  the  profession  of  the  ministry, 
not  because  they  want  to  get  rich  or  because 
they  lack  faith,  but  because  they  want  a  mas- 
culine, vigorous,  venturesome  task.  They  do 
not  propose  to  sit  on  the  margin  of  modern 
life ;  they  are  ready  for  the  risks  of  those  who 
do  business  in  great  waters.  To  the  Christian 
Church,  then,  comes  this  summons  of  the  Mas- 
ter to  the  larger  uses  of  his  faith.  Never  in  hu- 
man history  was  there  such  a  cry  from  the 
heart  of  the  world  for  the  moralization  of  in- 
dustry and  the  spiritualization  of  social  life, 
never  such  a  demand  for  social  justice  and 

138 


i&mitfiap  (Rtoeninfffi  in  tjje  College  C&apel 

personal  service  ;  and  never  was  it  so  clear 
that  the  answer  to  such  a  call  is  in  the  Gospel 
of  Jesus  Christ.  What  a  chance  —  perhaps 
a  last  chance  —  is  offered  to  the  Christian 
Church  for  mastery,  leadership,  and  efficien- 
cy !  How  manifestly  the  modern  world  is  wait- 
ing for  that  production  and  distribution  of 
spiritual  power  for  which  the  machinery  of 
Christianity  has  been  so  laboriously  made! 
Again  the  Master  stands  by  the  shore  of  op- 
portunity and  bids  his  timid  followers  drop 
their  half-washed  nets  and  launch  out  into 
the  deep. 

Such  is  the  call  of  Jesus  to  a  preoccupied 
and  hesitating  Church;  and  such,  finally,  is 
his  message  to  the  individual  soul.  A  man 
sits  here,  in  the  quiet  of  his  worship,  looking 
out  to  the  mysterious  and  untraversed  world 
through  which  his  life  must  find  its  way ;  and 
asks  for  some  assurance  of  efficiency,  achieve- 
ment, or  reward.  What  is  it  that  may  make  life 
worth  the  living  and  save  it  from  emptiness, 
despondency,  and  despair  ?  Nothing  seems 
certain  in  the  world  but  its  uncertainty.  No 
condition  in  life  guarantees  security  or  peace. 
Prosperity  may  be  the  source  of  the  subtlest 
perils;  adversity  may  be  the  discipline  one 
*39 


JSmtrtap  <£bemng;fii  in  t&e  College  Cljapel 

most  profoundly  needs.  The  experience  one 
dreads  may  hold  the  salvation  he  seeks  j  the 
task  he  shirks  may  bring  the  revelation  for 
which  he  prays.  There  remains,  then,  but 
one  rational  law  of  life.  It  is  to  take  one's 
experience  just  as  it  comes  and  to  make  the 
most  of  it.  Each  way  of  life  has  its  small 
uses  and  its  large  significance ;  and  the  inter- 
pretation of  experience  is  for  those  alone  who 
launch  out  from  the  shallows  to  the  deep. 

A  healthy-minded  man,  then,  facing  the 
facts  of  life,  begins  his  religious  confession 
with  a  prayer  something  like  this  :  "  I  do  not 
ask  that  life  shall  be  made  soft  and  easy ;  I  ask 
for  strength  to  venture  where  life  looks  hard. 
Save  me,  first  of  all,  Oh  God,  from  triviality, 
timidity,  and  distrust,  and  give  me  insight, 
foresight,  discernment,  horizon,  space.  Res- 
cue me  from  dabbling  in  the  shallows,  and 
train  me  for  the  adventures  of  the  deep.  Here 
is  my  mind  —  an  open  net  through  which 
my  little  thoughts  easily  escape.  Fill  it  with 
larger  aims  and  satisfy  my  hunger  for  the 
truth.  Here  is  my  conduct,  —  trifling,  cow- 
ardly, and  fickle ;  summon  it  to  a  new  ideal 
of  loyalty,  stability,  and  courage.  Here  is  my 
religion  —  self-centred,  complacent,  narrow; 
140 


^tmfcap  <Etonung;s  tn  tl)c  College  €  baprl 

enrich  it  with  social  responsibility  and  hope ; 
sanctify  me  for  others'  sakes;  launch  my 
little  life  on  the  great  sea  of  human  service, 
and  make  me  a  fisher  of  men." 

Will  such  a  prayer  unveil  all  the  mysteries 
of  experience  and  make  life  simple,  unper- 
plexed,  and  plain  ?  Oh  no !  There  must  re- 
main much  that  seems  baffling,  cruel,  perilous, 
and  undeserved.  There  are  risks  in  the  deeps 
which  one  may  escape  on  the  shore.  But  this 
is  the  fundamental  satisfaction  of  the  great 
adventure,  —  that  it  puts  a  man  where  he 
ought  to  be,  among  the  vicissitudes  and  the 
rewards  which  are  worthy  of  a  man.  He  is,  at 
least,  not  a  runaway,  but  a  good  soldier  of 
Jesus  Christ.  The  coward  in  him  shrinks  away 
as  the  Master  calls  for  followers  ;  and  the  hero 
in  him  answers  :  "  Here  am  I,  send  me."  He 
draws  out  his  little  boat  of  consecrated  desire 
where  the  flood-tide  of  the  spirit  may  reach 
it,  and,  with  a  song  upon  his  lips,  launches 
forth  into  the  deep  waters  of  experience  and 
lets  down  his  nets  for  a  greater  draught. 


141 


IX 


THE  WRITING   ON    THE    CORNER- 
STONE 

Nevertheless  the  foundation  of  God  standeth  sure,  having 
this  seal,  The  Lord  knoweth  them  that  are  his ;  and,  Let 
every  one  that  nameth  the  name  of  Christ  depart  from 
iniquity.  —  2  Tim.  11,  19. 


g^^jgHE  apostle  in  this  chapter  is  looking  at 
^  the  growth  of  Christianity,  as  a  builder 
stands  and  looks  at  the  growth  of 
his  building.  He  is,  as  he  says  elsewhere,  a 
wise  master-builder.  He  is  not  the  designer 
of  the  building.  He  and  Apollos  and  Cephas 
and  the  rest,  as  he  writes  to  the  Corinthians, 
are  working  out,  in  various  materials  —  costly 
stone,  it  may  be,  or  wood,  or  stubble  —  a  de- 
sign which  has  been  put  into  their  hands.  Be- 
hind the  builder,  that  is  to  say,  stands  the 
architect.  God  has  sketched  His  design  for  the 
Church  that  is  to  be  :  and  these  are  His  work- 
men, to  build  what  has  thus  been  planned; 
and  the  master-builder  in  this  chapter  is  urg- 
ing young  Timothy  to  do  his  part  of  the  work 
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££>tmtoap  (£toenmg;0  in  t(je  College  Cfrapel 

well,  and  to  be  a  workman  that  need  not  be 
ashamed. 

Looking  thus  at  the  formation  of  the  Chris- 
tian Church  as  an  artisan  might  look  at  a 
building  on  which  he  was  employed,  the  apos- 
tle sees,  rising  behind  the  scaffolding,  the 
marks  of  bad  work,  false  art,  divergence  from 
what  the  master-builder  knows  to  have  been 
the  architect's  design.  Some  of  the  workmen 
have  thought  they  knew  more  than  the  de- 
signer. Hymenaeus  and  Philetus  have  set  up 
in  one  corner  of  the  structure  a  new  doctrine 
of  their  own  about  the  resurrection;  and  it 
stands  there,  a  grotesque  blemish  on  the 
Architect's  plan.  The  master-builder  is  in- 
dignant. He  calls  these  perversions  of  the 
truth  "profane  babblings"  and  "foolish 
questions,"  and  points  out  to  young  Timothy 
the  tawdry  little  additions,  which,  if  they  are 
not  taken  down,  will  deface  the  great  design. 
But  then,  with  a  great  sense  of  relief,  this 
master-builder  recalls  one  incident  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  building  which  has  practically  fixed 
its  form  and  plan.  God,  the  architect,  while 
He  may  tolerate  variety  of  method  and  ma- 
terial in  the  superstructure  of  His  design, 
knowing  that  it  can  be  easily  modified  and 

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§>tmfcap  (^bettings  in  t(je  College  C&apel 

replaced,  has  seen  the  foundation  laid  under 
His  own  eye.  The  foundation,  He  knows,  will 
determine  both  the  shape  and  the  stability  of 
the  whole  structure,  and,  whatever  else  may 
happen,  the  foundation  is  sure.  "  Other  foun- 
dation can  no  man  lay  than  that  is  laid, 
which  is  Jesus  Christ."  Beneath  all  the  diver- 
sities of  superstructure  in  thought  or  life 
which  may  deface  God's  plan,  lies  the  one 
substantial  and  unchangeable  foundation,  hid- 
den, as  the  apostle  says,  "  with  Christ  in  God." 
That  is  the  first  thing  which  gives  comfort 
to  one  who  observes  how  many  foolish  super- 
fluities have  been  built  into  the  structure  of 
Christianity.  But  there  is  more  than  this  to 
comfort  him.  Not  only  has  God  laid  this 
foundation,  which  not  even  the  mistakes  of 
Christians  can  change,  but,  still  further,  He 
has  given  this  foundation  a  special  mark  and 
stamp,  so  that  we  may  know  that  it  rests  on 
Christ.  God  has  set,  so  says  this  passage,  in 
this  foundation  a  corner-stone,  and  has  in- 
scribed on  it,  just  as  men  do  now,  the  words 
which  mark  the  nature  and  purpose  of  His 
building.  Men  may  make  their  superfluous 
contributions  to  the  towers  and  pinnacles 
above ;  and  the  day  will  come  when  a  better 
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gmitfja?  €tocnuisfl  in  t&e  College  (JDJjapel 

understanding  of  Christianity  will  recognize 
and  correct  this  decadent  art ;  but  meantime 
there  shall  be  no  mistaking  the  fundamental 
purpose  of  the  great  design.  It  shall  always  be 
known  what  this  slowly  rising  structure  was 
designed  to  be  and  do ;  for  this  intention  is 
indicated  by  the  shape  of  the  foundation  and  by 
the  place  and  inscription  of  the  corner-stone. 
That  gives  the  master-workman  courage  for 
the  Church  that  is  to  be.  It  is  disturbing 
enough  to  watch  the  bad  work  of  Hymenaeus 
and  Philetus,  intruding  their  new  teachings 
into  the  simplicity  of  Christ;  but,  after  all,  it 
renews  the  apostle's  confidence  to  be  able  to 
say,  "Nevertheless,  the  foundation  of  God 
standeth  sure." 

A  sure  foundation !  Let  us,  first  of  all,  re- 
peat this  note  of  confident  hope  with  which 
the  apostle  recurs  to  the  things  which  cannot 
be  moved.  A  great  sense  of  relief  comes  to 
any  man  when  he  discriminates  between  the 
thousand  things  in  Christianity  which  may  be 
superadded  to  the  Christian  plan,  and  the  plain, 
permanent,  unmistakable  foundation  which 
lies  hidden  from  view  beneath.  For  in  our 
day,  as  in  that  of  Paul,  one  is  confronted  by 
the  heresy  of  Hymenaeus  and  Philetus ;  the 

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gmtiiiap  ©bemnffa  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

desire  to  make  of  Christianity  a  complicated, 
overloaded,  elaborate  superstructure,  which 
may  quite  obscure  the  original  design.  To 
such  a  heretic,  —  and  he  commonly  thinks  him- 
self as  far  as  possible  from  heresy,  —  Christian- 
ity is  a  theological  system,  wrought  out  into 
subtle  statements  of  faith,  so  that  the  first 
thing  which  catches  the  eye  is  this  multipli- 
city of  detail.  Each  creed-maker  adds  a  new 
pinnacle  or  buttress,  and  gathers  round  him 
his  little  communion  of  sympathizers,  and 
cries  :  "  See !  We  never  knew  till  now  what 
the  Christian  Church  was  meant  to  be." 
So  the  process  of  sect-making  and  heresy- 
building  goes  confidently  on.  But  beneath  all 
this  theological  and  ecclesiastical  tawdriness 
and  exaggeration,  which  the  Christian  apostle 
does  not  scruple  to  call  "profane  babblings," 
the  master-builder  finds,  and  is  reassured  by 
finding,  what  he  calls  the  "simplicity  that  is 
in  Christ,"  which  marks,  not  the  temporary 
scaffolding,  but  the  permanent  foundation  of 
his  Christian  faith. 

This  happy  discovery  of  a  sure  foundation 
is  the  sign  in  any  age  of  a  maturing  religious 
life.    Hymenasus  and  Philetus,  like  most  ne- 
ophytes, want  an  elaborate  system  of  belief. 
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gmntap  (Ebcnmpf  in  t|>e  College  C&apel 

But  as  one  grows  older  in  religious  experience 
the  sense  of  value  shifts.  He  grows  to  care  less 
for  many  beliefs,  but  much  more  for  a  few 
beliefs.  He  values  superstructures  less  and 
foundations  more.  Stability  of  conviction 
comes  not  so  much  by  adding  new  truths  to 
one's  creed,  as  by  leaning  very  hard  on  a  few 
truths,  and  finding  them  able  to  bear  the  strain. 
When  a  man  in  the  oil-fields  of  Pennsylvania 
counts  up  the  value  of  his  property,  he  does 
not  say,  "  I  have  ten  wells  while  my  neighbor 
has  one,"  for  he  knows  that  ten  wells  may  be 
dry,  and  one  may  be  a  fortune.  What  he  wants 
is  not  ten  wells,  but  one  that  flows.  If  he  has 
one  such,  he  is  rich.  Out  of  its  mysterious 
depths  there  leaps  an  overwhelming  flood 
which  fills  his  tanks  and  pipes,  and  makes  him 
cry,  not  for  more  wells,  but  for  storage-room 
for  the  wealth  which  he  has  found.  That  is 
the  way  a  man  strikes  truth.  It  is  not  the 
number  of  shafts  he  sinks  which  counts  ;  it  is 
the  findingsomethingin  anyone  of  them.  It  is 
not  many  beliefs  which  one  needs,  it  is  much 
belief  in  something.  He  does  not  ask  for  many 
gods  lest  some  of  them  should  fail  him.  One 
real  God  is  enough.  One  real  truth  makes  a  man 
rich.  Out  of  its  mysterious  depths  there  wells 
147 


gmnUap  (Kbeninsfi  in  t&e  College  Cfjapel 

up  a  flood  of  assurances  and  consolations,  as 
though  the  universe  of  God  had  but  that  sin- 
gle outlet. 

That  is  the  story  of  Christian  experience. 
One's  creed  grows  shorter,  but  it  grows  more 
real.  It  is  not  multiplicity  one  wants,  but 
reality  ;  not  a  little  belief  in  many  things,  but 
much  belief  in  something.  Truths  which  once 
seemed  unimportant  flash  on  one  with  their  full 
significance.  It  is  as  if  he  had  been  sitting  on 
the  shore  idly  watching  the  flickering  lights 
that  mark  the  coast ;  and  then,  in  some  awful 
night  of  trial,  from  the  reeling  deck  of  some 
shattering  experience,  came  to  see  in  these 
same  lights  the  saviours  from  shipwreck  and 
the  guides  to  port.  In  that  darkness,  lit  only 
by  those  trembling  beams,  one  understands 
at  last  the  Wisdom  which  has  set  along  the 
stormy  coast  of  life  these  scattered  lights,  and, 
trusting  them  implicitly,  steers  his  way  in 
peace. 

From  manypoints  of  view  the  present  age  is 
one  of  destruction  in  the  Christian  Church. 
Many  a  belief  is  shaken ;  many  a  creed  is 
shortened ;  many  of  the  elaborate  theories  of 
the  past  seem  like  the  vain  babblings  and 
foolish  questions  of  Hymenaeus  and  Philetus. 
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Smntoap  (Etoemnffs  in  t&e  College  Cbapel 

But  does  all  this  mean,  as  many  suppose,  a  de- 
cline of  faith  ?  On  the  contrary,  it  may  be  the 
sign  of  a  renewed  stability.  A  time  when  all 
beliefs  are  questioned  is  the  best  time  to  sift 
out  the  beliefs  which  are  fundamental.  It  is  a 
time  of  discrimination.  Quantity  gives  way  to 
quality.  The  issue  of  these  tumultuous  con- 
troversies maybe  that  men  will  settle  down  on 
a  few  great  truths,  against  which  neither  history 
nor  criticism  has  any  weapon,  and  that  on  this 
broad  and  plain  foundation,  not  strength  alone, 
but  unity  will  be  found.  There  never  was  a 
better  age  for  religious  faith  than  this  which 
calls  men  so  absolutely  from  the  uncertainties 
of  their  own  superstructures  to  the  sure  found- 
ation of  God.  It  is  like  the  time  when,  through 
the  traditionalism  and  ritualism  of  his  day, 
there  swept  the  cleansing  wind  of  the  influ- 
ence of  Jesus  Christ.  His  people  were  believ- 
ing many  things,  but  they  were  not  believing 
much  of  anything.  They  were  adding  new 
turrets  to  their  temple,  while  its  foundations 
were  crumbling  below.  Then  he  recalled  them 
to  the  few  great  facts  on  which  the  whole  was 
built.  "  On  these,"  he  said,  "  rest  all  your  law 
and  prophets."  They  dealt  with  him  as  a  de- 
stroyer of  the  faith,  for  he  shook  some  of  their 
149 


^untiap  (KbcninffB  in  t&e  College  Cljapel 

pinnacles  till  they  tottered  and  fell.  But  he 
was  not  come  to  destroy  ;  he  was  come  to  ful- 
fil,—  to  fill  out  the  fundamental  faith  with 
its  tremendous  meaning.  The  return  to  sim- 
plicity was  the  note  of  supremacy.  The  deep- 
est secrets  of  the  soul  were  in  its  simplest  ut- 
terances. The  world's  great  epoch  came  when 
beneath  the  mistakes  and  accretions  of  the 
thoughts  of  men  there  was  laid  bare  the  plain 
and  sure  foundation  of  God. 

But  the  apostle  does  not  write  of  the  found- 
ation only.  In  the  corner  of  that  foundation, 
he  goes  on  to  say,  the  Designer  has  set  a  stone  : 
and  on  either  side  of  that  corner-stone  He  has 
set  His  own  inscription.  It  is  the  custom  of 
builders  still.  It  was  the  custom  of  the  Jewish 
law.  "These  words  which  I  command  thee 
this  day,"  says  Jehovah  in  the  earlier  time, 
"thou  shalt  write  upon  the  posts  of  thy  house 
and  upon  thy  gates."  What,  then,  has  God 
written  upon  the  corner-stone  which  is  to  be 
set  in  the  foundation  of  His  design  ?  It  is  a 
twofold  inscription,  says  the  apostle.  One 
teaching  faces  one  side  of  the  building ;  the 
other  looks  the  other  way.  One  is  a  teaching 
about  God  ;  the  other  is  a  teaching  about  man. 
One  has  to  do  with  religion,  the  other  with 

*5° 


£&tmUap  (Etocmnp  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

ethics.  One  is  the  fundamental  doctrine  of 
Christianity  concerning  our  relation  to  God; 
the  other  is  the  fundamental  doctrine  of 
Christianity  concerning  our  relation  to  men. 
"  The  foundation  of  God  standeth  sure,  hav- 
ing this  seal "  :  first,  "The  Lord  knoweth  them 
that  are  his  "  ;  and,  then,  "  Let  every  one  that 
nameth  the  name  of  Christ  depart  from  ini- 
quity." 

Let  us  look  at  these  opposite  sides  of  God's 
corner-stone,  as  it  lies  there  in  its  place  in  the 
sure  foundation.  What,  on  the  one  hand,  is  a 
Christian's  fundamental  relation  to  the  life  of 
God  ?  What  is  the  foundation  of  his  religious 
experience  ?  One  might  be  inclined  to  answer : 
"  First  of  all,  one  must  find  God,  must  believe 
in  God,  must  be  sure  that  there  is  a  God,  and 
must  know  something  of  His  ways  with  men." 
Now  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  supreme 
achievement  of  the  human  reason  is  in  this 
knowledge  of  God  and  of  God's  ways.  That  is 
theology;  and  theology  is  the  queen  of  the 
sciences,  not  to  be  despised  or  ignored  or  out- 
grown, but  only  to  be  renewed  and  strength- 
ened as  other  sciences  contribute  new  mate- 
rial for  it  to  interpret.  Yet  how  partial  and 
meagre  is  the  knowledge  of  God  which  may 

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&mtim?  (Ebewnjja  in  t&e  College  Chapel 

be  thus  attained  !  The  thought  of  man  stands 
like  a  baffled  explorer  on  the  shore  of  the 
little  island  of  the  known,  and  gazes  out  upon 
the  sea  of  mystery.  The  ocean  is  real,  but  it 
is  unexplored.  Its  presence  cannot  be  denied, 
but  its  depths  cannot  be  fathomed.  So  man's 
wisdom  stands  before  the  depth  of  the  life  of 
God  ;  and  the  wisest  push  out  a  little  way  into 
that  ocean,  and  to  them  it  seems  vaster  than 
before. 

Is  this  approach,  then,  of  the  theologian  and 
philosopher,  this  way  of  exploration,  justified 
and  brave  as  it  is,  the  experience  which  re- 
presents the  religious  life  ?  On  the  contrary, 
the  whole  history  of  practical  religion  reports 
a  different  story.  These  researches  of  the 
theologians  are  in  reality  reversing  the  steps 
in  which  religion  makes  its  first  approach.  We 
are  not  in  religion,  first  of  all,  inquirers  and 
explorers ;  we  are,  first  of  all,  receivers.  Re- 
ligion is  not  our  discovery  of  God,  but  God's 
discovery  of  us.  What  gives  one  confidence 
is  not  the  completeness  of  his  knowledge  of 
God,  but  the  completeness  of  God's  knowledge 
of  him.  It  is  not  the  sense  of  finding  God 
which  steadies  us;  it  is  the  sense  of  God's 
finding  us.  That  is  religion :  it  is  ignorance 
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Smnftap  <£toenmgg  in  tbc  College  Chapel 

in  the  hands  of  knowledge,  weakness  led  by- 
strength,  the  child  accepting  the  Father,  not 
to  understand  Him,  but  to  obey  Him.  And 
that,  I  suppose,  is  what  the  apostle  means 
when  he  reads  on  the  one  side  of  God's 
corner-stone  the  fundamental  truth,  "The 
Lord  knoweth  them  that  are  his." 

Here  is  no  controversy  with  theology.  It  is 
simply  the  confession  that  our  knowledge  of 
God  is  surrounded  by  the  larger  truth  of  God's 
knowledge  of  us.  That  is  what  leads  men,  not 
to  philosophize,  but  to  pray.  That  is  what 
builds,  not  a  hall  for  lectures,  but  a  church 
for  worship.  Out  of  the  sense  that,  in  our 
ignorance  and  blindness,  we  are  held  in  the 
love  and  life  of  God,  flow  the  psalms  and  pray- 
ers, the  peace  and  hope,  which  give  religion 
its  place  in  the  history  of  man.  When  one 
thinks  of  all  the  long,  sad  history  of  human 
endeavor  to  establish  the  religious  life  on 
man's  knowledge  of  God,  the  presumptuous- 
ness  of  the  theologians,  the  formalism  of  the 
ecclesiastics,  the  foundation  sought  in  organ- 
ization or  ritual,  then  one  begins  to  feel  the 
relief  with  which  the  apostle  settles  down  on 
the  sheer  and  simple  sense  that  God  knows 
him.    Oh  Hymenaeus  and  Philetus,  he  says, 

*53 


gmntoap  (Kbenmgfi  in  t|>e  Caliche  Chapel 

cease  your  babblings  about  past  resurrec- 
tions and  future  mysteries,  and  read  what 
is  written  on  the  corner-stone  !  God  does  not 
ask  of  you  all  knowledge  of  the  heights  and 
depths  of  Providence.  The  foundation  of  your 
faith  is  neither  in  your  wisdom  nor  your 
guesses.  There  are  many  things  in  heaven 
and  earth  which  you  will  not  understand  until 
you  enter  into  the  clearer  light  of  another 
world.  But  to  take  your  life  as  known  of  God, 
as  a  part  of  His  vast  design,  working  out  its 
salvation  because  God  works  in  it  to  will  and 
to  do,  —  whatever  else  you  may  build  upon 
that  confession,  —  that  is  the  corner-stone  of 
a  religious  life.  It  is  inscribed,  not  with  a 
maxim  of  philosophy,  but  with  a  summons  to 
worship.  Its  primary  confession  is  :  "  The 
Lord  knoweth  them  that  are  his."  On  this 
plain  foundation  it  rests,  and  its  creed  is  a 
psalm  of  dependence  and  trust :  — 

"  Thy  calmness  bends  supreme  above, 
My  restlessness  to  still. 
Around  me  flows  thy  quickening  life, 
To  nerve  my  faltering  will. 
Thy  presence  fills  my  solitude  ; 
Thy  Providence  turns  all  to  good." 

Such  is  the  writing  which  Paul  saw  on  one 
side   of  the  corner-stone, — the  side  which 

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&unUap  (Etcniiifffi  in  t|)c  College  C&apel 

faced  towards  God.  Look  now,  for  a  mo- 
ment, at  the  opposite  side,  —  the  side  which 
turns  toward  man.  On  it  is  written  the  other 
half  of  the  one  seal.  And  what  is  it  but  simply 
the  demand  for  the  Christian  character  ?  "  Let 
every  one  that  nameth  the  name  of  Christ 
depart  from  iniquity."  That,  to  the  apostle, 
is  the  second  mark  of  the  corner-stone  of 
Christianity.  The  test  of  religion  on  its  hu- 
man side  is  nothing  else  than  conduct.  The 
fellowship  which  is  in  Christ  is  a  fellowship 
of  character.  There  can  be  no  other  stable 
Christianity  than  that  which,  first  of  all, 
makes  a  man  depart  from  iniquity.  How  often 
in  the  history  of  the  Christian  religion  has  it 
seemed  as  if  it  were  something  else  than  a 
school  of  life  !  How  often  have  the  ecclesias- 
tics and  theologians  tried  to  write  some  other 
text  on  the  corner-stone !  But  other  founda- 
tion can  no  man  lay  than  that  is  laid.  The 
discipleship  of  Jesus  Christ  begins  with  the 
cleansing  of  personal  conduct.  "By  their 
fruits  ye  shall  know  them."  No  conceivable 
elaboration  of  beliefs,  or  form  of  ritual,  or 
claim  of  authority  can  make  a  church  of 
Christ,  unless  on  its  corner-stone  be  written 
the  simple  pledge  of  the  consecrated  charac- 

*55 


J&tmfcap  (Ebeninjrs  in  tb^  College  C&apel 

ter.  That  is  Christ's  test  of  Orthodoxy :  the 
mark  of  a  true  Church. 

All  this  has  grown,  by  this  time,  obvious 
enough.  The  Christian  Church  is  ready  to 
accept  the  moral  test ;  and  no  communion 
can  expect  the  allegiance  of  this  practical 
age  which  does  not  write  on  its  corner-stone, 
"Let  every  one  that  nameth  the  name  of 
Christ  depart  from  iniquity."  But  in  our  day 
we  have  come  to  the  opposite  heresy.  If  the 
good  life  be  essential  to  Christianity,  what  is 
Christianity  but  the  good  life?  Is  it  not  multi- 
plying difficulties  to  demand  a  relation  to 
God  ?  What  have  we  to  do  with  the  supernat- 
ural ?  Ethics  without  creed,  character  with- 
out religion,  —  that  is  the  talk  of  the  time. 
What  difference  does  it  make  what  one  be- 
lieves, so  long  as  he  does  right  ?  Let  us  take 
this  corner-stone  of  the  Church,  and  turn  to 
the  wall  as  superfluous  its  first  inscription,  — 
the  Godward-looking  one,  —  and  turn  to  the 
world  the  other  writing,  —  the  demand  for 
righteousness,  —  and  on  that  still  simpler 
foundation  rest  content. 

To  all  these  suggestions,  of  duty  divorced 
from  faith,  of  ethics  without  worship,  as  a 
sufficient  foundation,  the  apostle's  answer  is 


Smntoap  (Stjemngfi  in  tfoe  College  Cljapel 

simply  this :  that  religion  and  righteousness 
are  merely  different  sides  of  the  same  corner- 
stone, different  aspects  of  the  same  founda- 
tion. What  is  one's  duty  ?  It  is  his  faith  turned 
toward  man.  And  what  is  his  faith  ?  It  is  his 
duty  turned  toward  God.  Live  out  your  duty 
broadly  enough,  and  you  issue  into  the  expe- 
rience of  religion.  Live  out  your  religion 
definitely  enough,  and  it  controls  and  inspires 
every  act  of  duty.  The  reason  people  are 
satisfied  with  duty  without  faith  is  because 
they  have  not  begun  to  perceive  the  extension 
of  duty  to  its  ideal  ends  ;  the  reason  they  are 
satisfied  with  a  religion  which  is  not  tested 
by  conduct  is  because  they  have  not  really 
come  close  to  the  sense  of  a  living  God.  Here 
are  not  two  things,  but  one.  Given  a  large 
enough  duty,  and  it  reveals  God  ;  given  a  real 
enough  God,  and  He  quickens  duty.  It  is  as 
if  one  had  been  born  on  some  small  island, 
and  did  not  know  it  was  an  island.  It  is  real 
ground  under  him,  and  he  may  live  in  the  in- 
terior, and  do  his  duty  there.  But  suppose 
that  some  day  he  goes  up  to  the  heights 
above  his  home  or  out  to  the  margin  of  his 
land,  there,  beyond  him,  stretches  the  infinite 
and  unsuspected  sea.  So  the  life  of  faith  holds' 

iS7 


JSmirtrap  (Ktoeninfffi  in  tlje  College  Cljapel 

the  life  of  duty  in  its  arms;  and  round  about 
the  pressing  realities  of  the  daily  service  of 
man  lies  the  vaster  reality  of  the  infinite  and 
encompassing  life  of  God. 

Such  is  the  Pauline  doctrine  of  the  corner- 
stone, the  picture  of  a  life  that  has  a  foundation, 
standing  in  simplicity  and  strength  among  the 
shifting  circumstances  of  the  world.  Such  a 
life  may  be  unobserved  among  the  showy 
people  of  its  time.  It  is  like  some  quiet  and 
substantial  building  which  one  may  pass 
without  a  glance,  but  which,  when  one  ob- 
serves it,  has  about  it  the  marks  of  repose 
and  stability  instead  of  ornateness  and  ex- 
cess. It  has  heard  the  great  word  of  the  Mas- 
ter: "  Ye  shall  find  rest  unto  your  souls."  It 
is  not  restless  and  self-assertive,  but  tran- 
quil and  restrained.  It  is  restful,  because  it 
has  something  to  rest  on.  Its  foundation  is 
sure.  Its  supports  are  solid.  Its  creed  is  short 
but  real.  Such  a  man  does  not  hold  his  be- 
liefs ;  they  hold  him.  As  his  character  rises 
from  this  foundation,  and  the  scaffolding  of 
education  and  discipline  is  taken  down,  the 
structure  turns  out  to  be  harmonious  and 
substantial.  His  conduct  is  sustained  by  his 
faith  ;  his  faith  is  shown  by  his  works.  It  is 

iS8 


Imnfcap  (Etoemngg  in  tjje  College  C&apel 

good  art  all  through.  The  building  is  consis- 
tent. His  faith  and  his  duty  are  opposite 
sides  of  one  design.  One  aspect  of  his  character 
looks  toward  God  ;  the  other  toward  man.  On 
one  side  is  inscribed :  "  The  Lord  knoweth 
them  that  are  his" ;  and  that  front  is  bathed 
in  the  light  of  the  Eternal;  on  the  other 
side  is  written  :  "  Let  every  one  that  nameth 
the  name  of  Christ  depart  from  iniquity  "  ; 
and  this  front  looks  straight  toward  the  busi- 
ness and  work  of  the  world.  So  this  uncom- 
plicated and  consistent  Christian  life  stands 
in  an  overwrought  and  restless  world.  And 
finally,  to  this  man  —  as  to  all  men  —  there 
comes,  soon  or  late,  the  day  of  strain,  when  the 
storms  of  experience  beat  upon  him,  and  the 
floods  of  temptation  swell  about  him;  and 
then,  under  the  stress,  he  still  stands  un- 
shaken and  secure.  His  foundation  is  sure. 
The  disciple  fulfils  the  promise  of  his  Master  : 
"  Whosoever  heareth  these  sayings  of  mine, 
and  doeth  them,  I  will  liken  him  unto  a  wise 
man,  which  built  his  house  upon  a  rock." 


'59 


DISCIPLINE 

The  centurion  answered  and  said,  Lord,  I  am  not  worthy 
that  thou  shouldest  come  under  my  roof;  but  speak  the 
word  only,  and  my  servant  shall  be  healed.  For  I  am  a 
man  under  authority,  having  soldiers  under  me ;  and  I  say 
to  this  man,  Go  and  he  goeth ;  and  to  another,  Come,  and 
he  cometh ;  and  to  my  servant,  Do  this  and  he  doeth  it. 
When  Jesus  heard  it,  he  marvelled,  and  said  to  them  that 
followed,  Verily,  I  say  unto  you,  I  have  not  found  so  great 
faith,  no,  not  in  Israel.  — Matt,  vin,  8,  9. 

|HIS  answer  of  Jesus  to  the  Roman 
^  soldier  seems  at  first  sight  extraordi- 
narily abrupt.  There  is  no  evidence 
that  he  has  ever  seen  this  captain  of  the 
guard  before,  yet  in  an  instant  he  discerns 
in  him  a  greater  faith  than  Israel  itself  pos- 
sessed. The  same  quick  acceptance  is  re- 
peatedly reported  in  the  gospels.  Jesus  meets 
in  the  same  way  Matthew,  or  Nathanael,  or  the 
Magdalene,  and,  looking  into  their  hearts, 
reads  them  at  a  glance  and  claims  them  as  his 
own.  Of  course  this  would  have  been  impos- 
sible if  he  were  looking  for  a  complete  con- 
160 


SmnUap  (gbeninsa  in  tfce  College  Cfjapcl 

fession  of  belief  as  the  condition  of  his  wel- 
come. But  he  was  not.  What  he  was  looking 
for  was,  first  of  all,  a  certain  habit  of  mind, 
a  certain  spiritual  attitude  which  made  lives 
receptive  of  him.  Seeing  this  in  a  man  —  this 
attitude  of  loyal  response — he  felt  sure  of  that 
soul ;  missing  this,  he  knew  that  no  possible 
correctness  of  formal  belief  or  of  outward  de- 
portment could  create  the  discipleship  which 
he  desired.  Publicans  and  harlots  would  enter 
the  kingdom,  and  scribes  and  Pharisees  would 
be  shut  out. 

What,  then,  was  the  habit  of  mind  which  this 
centurion  immediately  manifested,  and  which 
drew  from  Jesus  so  quick  and  glad  a  welcome  ? 
It  was  its  soldierly  quality.  The  man  came  to 
Jesus  just  as  he  would  have  come  to  his  su- 
perior officer.  His  theory  of  duty  had  been 
shaped  by  his  service  in  the  army.  He  had 
learned  there  the  lesson  of  discipline  and  the 
habit  of  obedience.  He  takes  orders  on  the 
one  hand  and  he  gives  orders  on  the  other. 
He  is  a  man  under  authority,  having  officers 
over  him,  and  at  the  same  time  he  is  a  man 
with  authority,  having  soldiers  under  him.  He 
expects  to  obey  and  he  expects  to  be  obeyed. 
He  comes  to  Jesus,  saying,  "I  know  that  you 
161 


gmntiap  <£toenins;s  in  t&e  College  Chapel 

should  be  obeyed  when  you  speak  in  the  name 
of  God,  because  I  know  that  I  shall  be  obeyed 
when  I  speak  in  the  name  of  Caesar."  Thus 
he  brings  to  Christ  a  soldier's  discipline.  It 
has  two  elements.  It  means,  in  the  first  place, 
obedience,  and,  in  the  second  place,  authority. 
Or  rather,  it  is  obedience  as  a  private  which 
gives  a  soldier  the  right  to  claim  obedience  as 
an  officer.  He  is  able  to  command  because  he 
has  been  trained  to  obey.  That  is  the  essence 
of  discipline.  The  soldier  stands  in  a  hierarchy 
of  authority.  He  has  learned  the  lesson  of 
obedience  and  therefore  he  is  able  to  say  to 
other  men,  Go,  and  they  go  ;  Come,  and  they 
come.  So  it  was  with  this  man.  If  he  had  never 
learned  to  follow  he  would  not  be  fit  to  lead. 
If  he  had  not  accepted  discipline  in  the  ranks 
he  would  not  have  had  men  under  him  as  a 
centurion.  With  a  soldier's  habit  of  mind  he 
turns  to  one  who,  he  perceives,  is  his  supe- 
rior, and  recognizes  the  right  of  Jesus  to  be 
obeyed  as  though  he  were  standing  with  his 
troops  before  their  general  and  receiving  his 
orders  for  the  day. 

I  suppose  it  is  this  quality  of  discipline  in  a 
soldier's  life  which  made  Jesus  and  his  disci- 
ples so  often  speak  of  the  Christian  life  as  the 
162 


£>tmfcap  (Etocninp  in  tlje  College  Cfjapel 

experience  of  a  soldier.  The  Christian  is  "  the 
good  soldier  of  Jesus  Christ,"  "That  he  may 
please  Him  who  hath  chosen  him  to  be  a 
soldier."  Nothing  at  first  would  seem  to  be 
more  opposed  to  the  Christian  ideal  than  the 
bloody  and  unscrupulous  brutality  of  a  Ro- 
man soldier.  Peace,  not  war,  we  should  say ; 
love,  not  force,  is  the  law  of  a  Christian. 
But  behind  the  occupation  of  the  soldier  the 
New  Testament  discerns  the  essential  charac- 
ter of  the  soldier.  He  is  not  only  brave,  but 
also  disciplined.  That  is  what  distinguishes 
an  army  from  a  mob.  The  individuals  of  a  mob 
may  be  fearless,  but  the  whole  body  melts 
away  when  the  soldiers  come,  because  there 
is  no  military  discipline.  When  some  years 
ago  in  Egypt  the  masses  of  furious  Arabs 
threw  themselves  like  whirling  cyclones  on  the 
English  squares,  as  though  the  very  sweep  of 
their  multitude  would  crush  those  thin  battal- 
ions, what  was  it  that  hurled  back  the  storm  ? 
It  was  not  bravery  alone.  There  never  was  a 
more  fanatical  courage  than  was  shown  in  that 
attack.  It  was  discipline  —  the  training  to 
obey  developed  into  a  compelling  instinct  and 
binding  the  whole  force  into  a  confident  unity. 
The  English  held  the  field  because  each  man 
163 


f&tmtoap  €benitiffB  in  tfce  College  C&apel 

held  his  place  ;  each  was  under  authority  and 
each  was  thereby  strong.  Thus  the  first  secret 
of  personal  power  lies  in  finding  one's  place  in 
the  order  of  the  whole.  The  power  to  command 
grows  out  of  the  power  to  obey.  The  first  step 
toward  leadership  is  through  the  sense  of  loy- 
alty. The  first  claim  to  authority  over  others 
is  the  discovery  of  an  authority  over  oneself, 
commanding,  persuasive,  absolute,  like  the 
word  of  Caesar  to  his  troops.  First  let  a  man  be 
consciously  under  authority,  and  then  he  is 
able  to  say  to  other  men,  Do  this,  and  they  do 
it.  Such  is  the  twofold  nature  of  a  soldier's 
discipline,  which  received  its  ready  welcome 
as  the  habit  of  mind  appropriate  for  a  disciple 
of  Jesus  Christ. 

Consider,  for  instance,  the  results  of  a  lib- 
eral education.  What  is  it  that  gives  an  edu- 
cated man  his  opportunity  for  leadership? 
Wherein  is  his  advantage  in  the  competitions 
of  life  ?  What  does  he  find  left  of  his  liberal 
education  when  he  looks  back  to  it  from  his 
active  career,  and  tries  to  sum  up  its  advan- 
tage ?  Certainly  what  is  left  is  not  its  details 
of  information,  its  specific  instructions,  its 
readiness  with  names,  dates,  tenses,  or  for- 
mulae. These  have  slipped  away  from  him 
164 


SunUap  (Evening;*!  in  tfce  Colltge  C&apel 

with  a  rapidity  and  absoluteness  which  would 
surprise  him  if  he  had  not  already  experienced 
the  same  shedding  of  accumulated  knowledge 
from  the  roof  of  his  brain  at  the  end  of  many 
an  examination  hour.  What  then  is  left  of  his 
education  ?  There  is  left  its  discipline.  He  is 
able  to  grasp  new  problems  with  facility  and 
mastery,  because  of  the  abrupt  demands  for 
the  same  alertness  and  comprehensiveness 
made  on  him  in  the  course  of  his  education. 
His  standards  have  become  high,  his  judg- 
ments broad  ;  he  knows  what  it  is  to  do  things 
thoroughly. 

And  how  does  this  discipline  in  education 
arrive  ?  It  comes  through  contact  with  great 
thoughts  and  with  great  minds.  The  educated 
man  has  met  the  masters  of  literature,  has  felt 
the  force  and  sweep  of  scientific  laws,  has  sat 
at  the  feet  of  the  philosophers,  and  as  he  has 
served  thus  in  the  ranks  of  the  army  of  schol- 
ars he  has  come  to  be  prepared  for  leadership 
among  scholars.  Sometimes  a  man  proposes 
to  work  out  large  problems  without  the  disci- 
pline of  education.  He  will  have  some  new 
way  of  knowledge.  He  will  be  a  leader  with- 
out having  been  a  follower.  He  will  astonish 
the  world  with  a  new  system  of  thought  or  a 

'65 


fsmntoap  <£bening;a  in  t&e  College  Cjjaael 

new  discovery  of  science.  These  are  the  men 
who  strew  the  bookstores  and  the  patent-office 
with  their  wrecks  of  literature  and  discovery. 
They  have  been  self-satisfied  because  they 
were  ignorant.  They  have  not  known  the 
masters  or  perceived  the  dimensions  of  truth, 
and  so  they  have  thought  that  they  were  the 
masters  and  that  truth  was  small.  The  dis- 
ciplined mind,  on  the  other  hand,  has  been  a 
mind  under  authority.  Great  teachers  have 
spoken  to  it.  Great  thoughts  have  commanded 
it.  Round  the  little  results  which  it  has  gained 
has  spread  the  mystery  of  an  unexplored  uni- 
verse. It  has  acquired  reverence,  humility, 
and  patience.  It  has  seen  the  magnitude  of 
truth,  —  the  range  of  its  laws,  the  severity  of 
its  standards,  the  demands  made  upon  its 
followers.  Then,  when  the  transition  comes 
from  obedience  to  authority,  the  disciplined 
mind  takes  the  leader's  place.  It  applies  to 
practical  affairs  its  training  and  facility.  It 
has  seen  service  in  the  ranks  and  therefore  is 
fit  to  command.  It  does  not  feel  that  it  knows 
everything,  or  that,  knowing  little,  it  still 
knows  enough  for  its  purpose,  for  it  has  dis- 
covered the  magnitude  of  principles  which 
underlie  details.  An  undisciplined  mind  is 
166 


&tmtiap  (Etocmtiffa  in  tljc  College  C&anel 

overwhelmed  by  details.  Discipline  sees  de- 
tails in  the  light  of  general  laws.  Thus  dis- 
cipline escapes  provincialism.  A  man  is  not 
shut  in  by  his  vocation.  He  is  its  master  in- 
stead of  being  its  slave.  This  is  the  function 
of  a  liberal  education,  —  to  liberate  the  mind 
from  the  despotism  of  circumstances  and  make 
him  master  of  them.  The  disciplined  mind 
attains  the  freedom  of  the  scholar  by  accept- 
ing the  training  of  the  scholar.  In  so  far  as 
one  has  been  in  his  education  a  man  under 
authority,  humbled  by  the  majesty  and  sweep 
of  the  laws  of  nature,  moved  to  loyalty  by 
great  leaders,  by  Plato  or  La  Place,  by  Kant 
or  Goethe,  as  a  soldier's  heart  beats  when  his 
general  rides  along  the  line,  in  so  far  is  he 
disciplined  to  take  his  place  as  a  leader  in  the 
world  of  thought  and  to  say  to  one  man,  Go,  and 
he  goeth,  to  another,  Come,  and  he  cometh, 
and  to  his  servant,  Do  this,  and  he  doeth  it. 

Consider  again  the  operation  of  this  twofold 
law  in  the  world  of  conduct.  What  is  it  that 
gives  steadiness,  poise,  and  stability  among 
the  moral  problems  of  one's  life  ?  What  gives 
one  resistance  under  the  pressure  of  tempta- 
tions, and  mastery  over  the  force  of  circum- 
stances ?    One's    first   answer   is   that   it  is 

i67 


&tm&ap  Ctoenmpi  in  tljc  College  C&apcl 

strength  of  will.  What  makes  a  man  unsteady 
and  unstable,  the  slave  of  temptation  and  cir- 
cumstances, is,  we  say,  feebleness  of  will.  The 
problem  of  a  moral  emergency  is  whether  the 
will  shall  take  command.  It  is  like  the  crisis 
of  a  battle  when  one  cries,  "Where  is  the  com- 
manding officer,  to  marshal  these  impulses  into 
line,  to  bring  up  the  reserves  of  self-control 
and  scatter  the  attack  of  passion  ?"  What  the 
moral  conflicts  of  one's  life  demand  is  a  strong 
and  authoritative  will. 

But  how  is  it  that  the  will  thus  comes  to  rule 
the  life  ?  What  gives  it  the  power  to  take  com- 
mand when  a  crisis  arrives  ?  Is  it  likely  to 
assert  itself  with  some  unpremeditated  author- 
ity, coming  among  the  impulses  of  life  like 
some  unknown  leader  who  leaps  to  the  front 
of  an  army  and  calls  on  it  to  follow?  Not  at 
all !  Strength  of  character  is  no  more  likely 
to  be  miraculously  attained  than  strength  of 
intellect.  It  is  the  result  of  a  slow  process  of 
education,  the  outcome  of  a  habit  of  discipline. 
The  will  accumulates  power,  precisely  as  the 
mind  accumulates  insight,  and  this  stored-up 
energy  waits  for  the  moment  of  demand  to 
give  impulse  and  unity  to  life.  The  moral 
crises  of  life  come  unexpectedly  and  suddenly. 
168 


gmn&ap  ©DemnjB  in  tbe  College  Chapel 

A  man  sails  on  over  the  ocean  of  his  experi- 
ence like  a  vessel  over  a  summer's  sea,  and 
it  is  easy  for  the  will  to  steady  such  a  course 
under  so  mild  and  favoring  a  breeze.  Then, 
of  a  sudden,  out  of  a  tiny  and  unthreatening 
cloud,  upon  a  listless  and  idling  crew,  descend 
the  fitful  gusts  which  test  strength,  skill,  and 
discipline.  That  is  no  time  to  consider  what 
should  be  done,  or  to  summon  a  new  capacity 
for  seamanship.  It  is  a  moment  for  decision. 
The  discipline  of  the  past  is  transformed  into 
an  instinct  for  action,  so  that  without  re- 
flection the  right  rope  is  seized  and  the  right 
order  given.  So  it  is  that  moral  crises  descend 
upon  one  out  of  a  clear  sky.  A  man  is  drift- 
ing along  without  a  thought  that  life  is  seri- 
ous or  dramatic,  and  of  a  sudden  God  tests 
him.  The  temptations  of  business,  of  lust,  of 
ambition,  strike  down  upon  him,  darkening 
his  whole  sky,  straining  his  whole  nature, 
leaping  like  waves  over  his  life,  and  the  guar- 
antee of  his  safety  is  not  in  a  will  then 
abruptly  called  into  being,  but  in  a  will  anteced- 
ently prepared.  These  overwhelming  inci- 
dents depend  for  their  success  on  the  moral 
unpreparedness  of  their  victim,  and  the  sud- 
denness of  their  attack.  They  are  to  be  met 
169 


i&tm&ap  (Kbeninsfi  in  tlje  College  C&apel 

in  no  hastily  developed  strength.  The  will 
which  takes  command  has  been  under  such 
control  that  its  action  has  become  an  in- 
stinct for  the  right.  Its  mastery  is  like  the 
facility  of  the  skilled  musician,  doing  without 
an  effort  that  which  years  of  effort  have 
trained  it  to  do.  It  is  like  the  seaman's  in- 
stinct, prompt  to  act  as  the  crisis  demands. 
When  the  sudden  storm  strikes,  the  disciplined 
will  takes  command  of  life,  crying,  Go  !  Come  ! 
Do  this !  and  the  whole  crew  of  one's  impulses 
and  capacities  obey. 

And  how  does  this  moral  discipline  arrive  ? 
It  comes  through  obedience.  The  power  to 
give  orders  comes  through  the  power  to  obey 
orders.  The  will  leads  because  it  has  discov- 
ered principles  which  it  unhesitatingly  follows. 
Who  is  the  man  who  fails  under  the  moral 
strain  ?  It  is  he  who  sets  himself  to  estimate 
each  case  without  a  standard  for  all  cases, 
like  a  captain  who  works  out  the  handling  of 
his  vessel  after  the  squall  has  struck.  And 
who  is  safe  in  the  moral  crises  of  life  ?  It 
is  he  who  has  habitually  considered  conduct 
in  the  light  of  permanent  principles,  absolute 
laws,  distinct  imperatives,  which  it  is  not  for 
him  to  tamper  with  or  readjust,  but  simply  to 
170 


JSmntoap  Curnmirs  in  the  Collect  Cbapel 

obey.  Such  a  man,  thrown  suddenly  among 
the  moral  battles  of  experience,  meets  them 
as  a  soldier.  The  details  of  his  conduct  are 
controlled  by  the  plan  of  life  to  which  he  con- 
forms, precisely  as  the  duty  of  each  solitary 
sentinel  is  an  essential  part  of  the  com- 
mander's plan.  As  a  man  under  authority,  he 
goes  out  among  the  problems  of  his  duty  and 
takes  command  of  them  like  a  centurion  giv- 
ing orders  to  his  troop. 

Once  more,  let  us  see  this  same  law  operat- 
ing in  that  deeper  region  of  life  where  religion 
lies.  What  does  religion  mean,  and  how  is  it 
that  religion  changes  one's  life  ?  A  man,  let 
us  suppose,  looks  out  into  the  world  and 
proposes  to  meet  its  varied  exigencies  in  his 
own  strength.  He  will  direct  his  own  career 
in  his  own  way,  he  will  settle  his  own  prob- 
lems as  they  arrive,  he  will  take  command  of 
his  own  experience.  Then  see  life  attack  him. 
See  its  mysteries  crowd  upon  him,  its  failures 
distract  him,  its  successes  humble  him,  its 
joys  surprise  him,  its  sorrows  confound  him, 
its  deaths  desolate  him.  What  is  he  discover- 
ing through  all  these  inevitable  experiences  ? 
He  is  discovering  that  his  life  is  not  his  own, 
that  he  cannot  create  it,  or  direct  it,  or  inter- 
171 


Smntiap  ©toeninafi  in  t|)e  College  Cfcapel 

pret  it ;  that  he  can  only  accept  it  as  a  trust 
put  into  his  hands  by  a  power  above  his  own. 
Then  he  turns  to  the  thought  that  his  life  is 
ordered,  with  all  its  joys  and  sorrows,  its  suc- 
cesses and  failures,  and  the  thought  of  that 
higher  law  comes  to  him  as  if  he  were  a  soldier 
who  had  seen  only  the  parts  of  the  battle- 
field with  their  varied  victories  and  defeats, 
and  who  then  came  to  stand  where  the  com- 
mander stood  and  saw  all  these  varied  inci- 
dents fulfilling  the  one  great  plan.  Thus  it  is 
that  when  a  man  finds  God  in  the  battlefield 
of  the  world,  the  successes  and  defeats  of  his 
own  life  take  their  place  in  the  order  of  the 
whole,  and  he  goes  bravely  down  again  into 
the  smoke  of  life,  knowing  that  it  is  for  his 
Commander  to  plan  and  for  him  to  serve.  It  is 
the  same  principle  fulfilling  itself  once  more. 
A  man  who  tries  to  live  without  religion  finds 
his  life  continually  perplexing  and  overwhelm- 
ing, because  he  does  not  face  it  as  the  servant 
of  the  higher  law.  The  religious  life  is  the 
disciplined  life.  It  commands  because  it  obeys. 
It  is  under  authority  and  therefore  it  becomes 
the  captain  of  its  career.  The  habit  of  obedi- 
ence to  God  above  gives  mastery  over  the 
world  below. 

172 


^witoap  (EtocnuiffB  in  tl)e  Collrsc  Cljapel 

Think  of  all  this  as  it  is  illustrated  in  the 
person  and  work  of  Jesus  Christ.  What  gave 
him  his  power  to  teach  with  authority  ?  It  was 
that  over  him  was  the  authority  of  God.  Above 
him  always  was  his  Father,  and  the  world  was 
therefore  at  his  feet.  He  knew  what  was  in 
man  because  he  yielded  himself  to  God.  He 
was  a  leader  through  the  sense  of  being  led. 
"I  speak  not  of  myself,  but  as  the  Father 
giveth,  even  so  I  speak."  "  My  meat  is  to  do 
the  will  of  Him  that  sent  me,  and  to  finish 
the  work  that  He  has  given  me  to  do."  When 
one  thinks  of  the  experiences  in  which  a  man 
must  take  command  of  himself  or  be  defeated, 
when  one  sees  these  tests  of  character  stealing 
up  against  some  unsuspecting  life  like  rifle- 
men creeping  up  to  the  attack,  when  one  counts 
up  the  vicissitudes  of  business,  the  perplexities 
of  thought,  the  disasters  of  home,  the  fickle- 
ness of  friendship,  the  joys  and  sorrows  of 
experience,  then  one  sees  where  spiritual  dis- 
cipline tells.  Believe  me,  a  man  will  come  out 
of  life  a  conqueror  only  as  he  goes  into  life  a 
soldier.  Many  orders  come  to  him  whose  full 
import  he  does  not  know;  but  he  is  a  man 
under  authority.  God  speaks  and  he  obeys. 
His  meat  is  to  do  the  will  of  Him  who  sent 

i73 


Stm&ap  Ctoemnfffi  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

him,  and  in  the  power  of  that  great  obedience 
the  world  becomes  obedient  to  him.  He  walks 
unharmed  through  his  successes  because  they 
are  won  for  his  Commander,  and  in  his  defeats 
he  is  not  alone  because  the  Father  is  with  him. 
He  leads  his  life,  he  is  not  led  by  it ;  he  says 
to  it  Go !  and  it  goeth,  Come !  and  it  cometh, 
because  he  is  himself  a  man  under  authority. 
Finally,  notice  what  this  which  we  have  called 
discipline  is  called  by  Jesus  Christ.  He  calls 
it  faith.  He  says  to  the  centurion  that  his 
answer  was  that  of  faith.  "  I  have  not  found  so 
great  faith,  no,  not  in  Israel."  Religious  faith 
is,  then,  a  much  simpler  thing  than  is  often 
supposed.  It  is  not  an  assent  to  opinions,  or  a 
conformity  to  tradition,  or  an  ecstasy  of  emo- 
tion. It  is,  according  to  this  incident,  a  habit 
of  moral  loyalty.  What  the  soldier  feels  to  his 
commander — that  is  faith.  It  is  affection,  rev- 
erence, and  trust,  summed  up  into  obedience. 
Faith  in  a  set  of  opinions  has  its  power  and 
place,  but  it  is  not  what  makes  religion  a 
way  of  life.  That  is  gained  only  when  a  man 
gathers  up  all  lesser  loyalties,  his  obedience 
to  truth  and  his  instinct  for  duty,  and  offers 
them,  with  all  else  he  has,  as  a  soldier  offers 
his  alertness,  capacity,  and  loyalty  to  the 
*74 


SmnUap  (Ktocnmtrs  in  tfyz  College  C&apel 

leader  whom  he  serves.  That  is  religion.  That 
is  the  essential  relationship  of  the  Christian  to- 
ward Christ,  —  the  simple  discovery  of  a  leader 
whose  right  it  is  to  lead,  and  then,  in  spite  of 
many  mysteries  and  problems  about  his  per- 
son and  his  plans,  the  committing  of  oneself 
to  his  cause  and  the  enlistment  under  his 
flag.  And  that  is  what  makes  plain  and  calm 
the  experience  of  life.  To  offer  oneself,  not  to 
serve  oneself,  but  to  be  loyal  to  one's  leader, 
—  that  is  what  simplifies  many  a  problem  and 
dismisses  many  a  care.  There  is  but  one  kind 
of  life  which  can  interpret  and  command  this 
world.  It  is  the  life  which  is  free  from  this 
world,  because  it  seeks,  not  its  own  will,  but 
the  will  of  the  Father  which  has  sent  it.  As 
it  finds  its  dependence  upon  God,  so  it  finds 
its  emancipation  from  the  world.  Its  service 
is  perfect  freedom.  It  has  heard  and  obeyed 
the  great  word,  "Thy  faith  hath  saved  thee." 
"This  is  the  victory  which  overcometh  the 
world,  even  your  faith." 


*75 


XI 

THE   PARABLE   OF  THE  VACUUM1 

When  the  unclean  spirit  is  gone  out  of  a  man,  he  walk- 
eth  through  dry  places,  seeking  rest ;  and,  finding  none,  he 
saith,  I  will  return  unto  my  house  whence  I  came  out.  And, 
when  he  cometh,  he  findeth  it  swept  and  garnished.  Then 
goeth  he,  and  taketh  to  him  seven  other  spirits  more 
wicked  than  himself ;  and  they  enter  in,  and  dwell  there : 
and  the  last  state  of  that  man  is  worse  than  the  first.  — 
Luke  xi,  24-26. 

|HIS  is  a  difficult  parable.  Perhaps  we 
cannot  tell  precisely  what  it  was  meant 
to  teach  in  the  connection  where 
it  stands.  Yet  it  has  a  general  meaning 
which  seems  to  be  plain.  It  describes  a  man 
possessed  by  what  is  called  an  unclean  spirit, 
and  casting  that  spirit  out  of  his  life.  That 
would  seem  to  be  a  great  and  happy  victory, 
—  the  victory  of  good  over  evil.  We  should 
think  it  would  leave  the  man  free  and  safe. 
But  this  man  does  not  feel  himself  a  tranquil 
conqueror.  On  the  contrary,  he  is  left  un- 
satisfied,   restless,   lonesome.     He    wanders 

1  Cf.  Mornings  in  the  College  Chapel,  First  Series,  p.  138. 
176 


Smtrtrap  (Ebemtiffg  in  tlje  College  C&anel 

through  dry  places,  seeking  rest  and  find- 
ing none.  He  misses  the  companionship  of 
the  very  spirit  which  he  had  managed  to 
drive  away.  His  life  is  empty  without  it.  He 
tries  to  live  in  the  solitary  cleanness  which  he 
has  made  ;  but,  before  long,  the  outcast  spirit 
knocks  at  the  door,  and  is  more  than  wel- 
comed back.  It  comes  with  its  companions, 
worse  than  itself ;  and  they  enter  in  and 
dwell  there,  and  the  last  state  of  that  man  is 
worse  than  the  first. 

It  is  easy  to  see  where  the  emphasis  of  the 
parable  lies.  It  is  on  the  peril  of  emptiness. 
The  story  says  that  such  a  dwelling  as  a  hu- 
man life  is  must  have  some  inhabitant.  No 
heart  can  remain  untenanted.  Driving  out 
one  occupant  only  makes  room  for  more. 
The  old  spirit  is  sure  to  return  and  to  be  wel- 
comed, even  if  it  bring  others  in  its  train.  If 
the  lesson  had  been  taught  in  a  scientific 
time  like  ours,  the  parable  of  the  empty  house 
might  have  been  called  the  parable  of  the 
vacuum.  It  is  a  space  which  nature  abhors. 
You  empty  it,  but  it  at  once  fills  itself.  There 
is  no  safety  in  the  unoccupied  life.  Or,  rather, 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  an  unoccupied  life. 
You  cannot  eject  one  tenant,  as   you  may 

i77 


gmttfrap  ©benin^s  in  tit  College  C&apel 

from  your  house,  and  sweep  and  garnish 
your  soul,  and  turn  the  key  on  its  emptiness. 
Against  your  will,  if  not  with  your  will, 
through  locked  doors  and  barred  windows, 
like  penetrating  air  or  formless  ghosts,  there 
will  certainly  crowd  into  your  empty  life  a 
throng  of  unbidden  thoughts  and  unpremedi- 
tated desires,  entering  in  and  dwelling  where 
one  spirit  dwelt  before. 

Consider,  for  instance,  the  life  of  a  child. 
Its  little  mind  is  never  safe  from  evil  unless 
it  be  preoccupied  with  good.  The  peril  which 
the  parent  has  the  most  to  fear  is  not  the 
peril  of  downright  wickedness,  but  the  peril 
of  a  vacuum.  The  primary  duty  of  a  wise 
parent  is  to  provide  such  resources,  amuse- 
ments, and  companions  that  the  sense  of  emp- 
tiness shall  not  get  control.  The  moment  a 
child  confesses  to  itself  that  it  has  nothing  to 
do,  that  moment  all  the  unwholesome  sprites 
of  mischief  or  sin  are  lurking  like  foes  in  am- 
bush, ready  to  leap  into  the  unguarded  citadel 
of  the  heart. 

Or  consider   the  life  of   a  young  man  or 

young  woman,  as  it  emerges  from  childhood 

into  maturer  thoughts  and  larger  aims.  Here 

is  a  momentous  transition.  Behind  one  is  the 

178 


&tm&ap  Ctoenmrra  in  t\)t  Collie  Cljapel 

life  of  childhood,  with  its  occupations  and  in- 
terests, its  toys  and  its  tears,  its  own  good  and 
evil  spirits ;  and  before  one  is  the  life  of 
maturity,  inviting  to  dreams  of  usefulness  or 
ambition  or  self-sacrifice,  to  new  trials,  temp- 
tations, and  victories;  but  just  between  the 
two  there  comes  to  most  young  lives  a  time 
when  neither  way  of  living  has  complete  con- 
trol. Sometimes  there  is  a  shamefaced  sighing 
for  the  thoughts  and  books  of  childhood,  some- 
times there  is  a  vague  burning  to  do  some- 
thing and  be  something  strong  and  free.  It 
is  a  time  of  restless  self-inquiry,  of  introspec- 
tion and  hesitation,  of  dissatisfaction  with  the 
irresponsibilities  of  a  child's  life,  yet  of  un- 
readiness to  take  up  the  obligations  of  grown 
people.  The  engine  of  vitality  is  filled  with 
steam  which  is  not  yet  applied  to  its  proper 
work.  It  seethes  and  boils  and  threatens  risk 
with  its  tumultuous  energy,  because  that 
energy  has  not  found  resistance  and  direction. 
In  most  instances  later  life  is  determined,  to 
a  degree  which  is  most  solemn  to  contemplate, 
in  the  course  of  the  half-dozen  years  when  one 
emerges  from  childhood  and  wakes  to  the 
temptations  and  interests  of  maturity.  One's 
whole  later  history  may  be  but  the  realizing  of 
179 


Smrtrap  (Ebeninp;  in  tfje  College  C&apel 

dreams  then  dreamed,  or  the  fighting  of  faults 
which  then  overmaster. 

Why  is  it  that  this  transition  is  so  serious  ? 
What  is  the  risk  that  marks  this  crisis  ?  It  is 
the  peril  of  our  parable,  the  danger  of  the 
empty  house.  The  interests  of  childhood  are 
put  away ;  even  its  unclean  spirits  tempt  no 
longer;  but  their  place  is  by  no  means  at 
once  supplied  by  the  enduring  purposes  of 
maturity.  The  joy  of  each  day's  occupation, 
the  novelty  of  each  day's  experience,  seems 
enough  to  satisfy.  Nothing  gives  fixity,  per- 
manence, singleness  to  life.  There  is  no  ab- 
sorbing aim,  no  continuous  purpose.  It  is 
too  soon,  one  says  to  himself,  for  the  solemn 
plans  which  make  older  people  long-faced  and 
gray.  Each  morning  brings  the  studies  which 
other  people  appoint  and  the  amusements 
which  the  world  provides.  No  choice  need  be 
made,  no  personal  discipline  maintained,  no 
permanent  responsibility  assumed,  no  over- 
whelming temptation  resisted.  The  house  is 
empty,  swept,  and  garnished.  Very  soon  a 
profession  must  be  chosen,  a  living  must  be 
earned,  the  competitions  and  ambitions  of  life 
must  be  faced,  and  that  will  be  time  enough 
to  find  a  permanent  tenant  for  one's  heart. 
180 


§>tm*ap  (Etocnmgfi  in  tlje  College  Cljapel 

But  you  cannot  thus  leave  the  spiritual  life 
without  a  tenant.  It  will  be  occupied  by  some- 
thing. It  is  a  vacuum  which  will  be  filled. 
There  is  no  safety  in  its  solitude.  There  is 
no  permanent  purity  in  its  escape  from  the 
old  passions  and  sins.  When  the  unclean 
spirit  is  cast  out  of  a  man,  it  does  not  leave 
him  safe  and  sound.  It  leaves  him  restless 
and  lonesome  ;  and,  if  he  does  not  forthwith 
fill  his  life  with  better  guests,  back  will  come 
the  unclean  spirits  of  his  youth,  — nay,  seven 
other  spirits  as  much  more  wicked  than  the 
first  as  the  sins  of  maturity  are  worse  than 
those  of  childhood,  —  back  they  will  come, 
and  thrust  themselves  into  the  unguarded 
life,  and  change  its  vacuum  into  a  miserable 
fulness,  and  the  last  state  of  that  soul  will  be 
worse  than  the  first. 

Thus  it  is  that  the  principle  of  the  vacuum 
governs  the  life  of  youth.  And  from  this  time 
on,  and  in  the  most  varied  experiences  of  life, 
it  is  easy  to  see  its  applications.  Consider  the 
occupations  of  the  mind.  There  are  two  ways 
to  study,  — with  an  empty  mind  or  with  a  full 
one.  You  may  take  up  a  book  and  put  away 
from  you  all  alertness  of  attention  and  intel- 
lectual expectancy,  and  as  the  book  has  its 
181 


J&tmUap  CtoenitiffB!  in  t&e  College  Cfjapel 

way  with  your  passive  mood,  you  may  believe 
that  you  are  studying.  But,  in  reality,  you 
are  not  studying ;  you  are  resting.  There  is 
hardly  any  kind  of  indolence  more  real  and  de- 
ceptive than  one  may  get  out  of  a  paper  or  a 
book.  A  great  part  of  the  reading  which  one 
does  is  in  no  sense  a  training  of  the  mind.  It 
is  a  relaxation  of  the  mind,  because  the  mind 
has  dismissed  from  itself  its  old  thoughts,  and 
is  not  tenanted  by  new  ones.  Then,  on  the 
other  hand,  it  sometimes  happens  that  one 
turns  to  a  book  with  quickened  attention,  with 
anticipation  of  acquisition,  with  alertness  of 
mind,  as  though  he  had  ideas  to  give  as  well 
as  to  take.  Then  the  process  of  reading  be- 
comes a  wholly  different  experience.  The 
unclean  spirits  of  indolence  and  listlessness 
are  supplanted  by  the  angels  of  sympathy  and 
imagination.  The  mind  is  helped  because  it 
is  full. 

So  it  is  in  the  more  serious  vocations  of 
life.  Here  is  a  naturalist,  face  to  face  with  his 
absorbing  interests,  considering  how  he  shall 
discipline  his  mind  to  serve  him  best  in  these 
pursuits.  There  are  two  possible  ways.  One 
way  is  to  empty  his  mind  of  all  preconcep- 
tions, anticipations,  or  guesses,  as  to  what  he 
182 


^mtfjap  (Etoenmp  in  t&e  College  CI)apeI 

is  to  find  or  learn  ;  to  place  his  mind  as  a  mir- 
ror before  the  facts  of  Nature,  to  receive  and 
reflect  them  with  absolute  clearness  and  pre- 
cision. This  way  of  intellectual  discipline  is 
sometimes  called  the  scientific  habit  of  mind. 
The  man  of  science,  it  is  said,  must  train  him- 
self to  be  absolutely  impartial  and  sincere.  He 
does  not  go  to  Nature  to  verify  some  notion 
of  his  own :  he  goes,  humbly,  to  learn  the 
facts,  and  to  let  them  speak  to  him  as  they  will. 
This  is  what  distinguishes  the  scientific  man 
from  the  mass  of  untrained  students,  the  emo- 
tional or  theological  minds,  who  rush  to  Na- 
ture with  some  preconception,  and  see  only 
those  incidents  which  confirm  their  anticipa- 
tion. To  rid  one's  self  absolutely  of  prepos- 
sessions, to  expel  from  the  mind  the  last  lin- 
gering spirit  of  prejudice  or  favor,  and  then 
to  offer  oneself  like  a  sensitive  photographic 
plate  for  the  impressions  of  Nature,  —  that  is 
the  state  of  mind,  it  is  said,  which  marks  the 
scientific  man. 

Now,  of  course,  all  this  is  true.  The  science 
of  our  time  is  teaching  this  lesson  of  candor, 
sincerity,  and  impartiality  as  it  never  was 
taught  before.  It  has  given  the  world  a  new 
definition  of  the  great  word,  Faith,  —  the  faith 

183 


J&tmtoap  (Kbeninafi  in  t&e  College  Cljapel 

which  commits  itself  obediently  and  rever- 
ently to  the  truth  as  it  is,  caring  not  whether 
preconceived  theories  are  shattered  or  upheld. 
But  is  this,  after  all,  the  kind  of  science  which 
penetrates  most  deeply  into  Nature  ?  Candor, 
freedom,  openness  of  mind,  —  these  are  of 
course  indispensable.  But  is  it  essential  that 
the  mind  shall  remain  passive  and  idle  —  a 
mirror  to  receive  the  truth  ?  On  the  contrary, 
the  highest  type  of  scientific  mind  has  a  much 
harder  task  than  to  evade  or  deny  its  own 
leadings.  It  has  to  employ,  often  on  the  most 
stupendous  scale,  a  disciplined  imagination.  It 
has  to  train  itself  to  receive  facts  with  perfect 
clearness  and  precision,  but,  in  addition,  to  let 
its  guesses  at  truth  run  out  along  the  lines  of 
these  facts,  preparing  the  way  for  new  in- 
quiries and  suggesting  the  meaning  of  new 
results.  Or  rather,  to  state  it  more  justly,  this 
makes  the  difference  between  large  and  epoch- 
making  work  done  for  scientific  ends,  and  the 
work  of  small  and  meagre  minds.  The  small 
mind  effaces  itself,  and  receives  on  its  blank 
sheet  the  writing  of  Nature :  the  large  mind 
goes  to  Nature  with  its  own  premonitions,  an- 
ticipations, and  guesses,  to  be  refuted  or  con- 
firmed. The  great  steps  in  science  have  been 
184 


^ttnUap  (Etoewngfi  in  t&e  College  Cfoapel 

taken  when  great  minds  have  projected  them- 
selves into  the  facts  observed,  and  have  sought 
their  meaning,  their  origin,  or  their  ten- 
dency. Galileo,  Newton,  Kepler,  Darwin,  — 
these  men  flung  their  guesses  out  at  Nature, 
ventured  an  anticipation,  dared  to  be  imagina- 
tive, and  then  had  set  before  them  the  pro- 
blem of  verifying  their  own  visions  or,  with 
equal  willingness,  of  correcting  or  denying 
them.  One  man,  that  is  to  say,  goes  to  Nature 
with  his  mind  full,  and  one  with  his  mind 
empty ;  and  the  measure  of  results  is  in  the 
fulness  of  thought  which  applies  itself  to  the 
truth.  Not  the  empty  mind  but  the  mind 
full  of  disciplined  ideas  has  scientific  insight 
and  grasp.  To  be  untrained  in  reflection  is  to 
be  unproductive  in  observation.  To  cast  out 
the  tenants  of  one's  mind  is  to  have  less  worthy 
ones  crowd  in.  The  mind  which  is  trained  to 
inquire  and  disciplined  to  correct  is  the  mind 
which  out  of  its  fulness  dares  to  discover,  and 
through  its  discipline  is  made  wise. 

Or  consider  another  great  intellectual  inter- 
est,—  the  study  of  the  Bible.  There  are  two 
ways  to  study  the  Bible.  One  is  to  divest  one- 
self of  sympathy  with  it  and  its  teachings,  and 
as  we  hear  it  said,  to  deal  with  the  Bible  as 

185 


J&mnfcap  (oentngfii  in  t\)t  College  C&apel 

one  would  with  any  other  book.  This  is  often 
called  the  method  of  criticism,  as  the  same 
method  among  naturalists  is  called  the  method 
of  science.  Of  course  there  is  truth  here  as 
there  was  truth  there.  Of  course  there  can  be 
no  increase  of  knowledge  about  the  Bible 
without  impartiality  and  open-mindedness. 
But  it  is  quite  another  thing  to  say  that  the 
mind  must  be  kept  free  from  the  impressions 
and  anticipations  which  such  a  study  con- 
stantly suggests.  Take,  for  instance,  the  life 
of  Jesus  Christ.  How  is  one  to  understand  it 
best  ?  Is  he  to  observe  it  as  he  would  observe 
a  stone  or  a  star,  without  growing  sympathy 
or  appreciation,  or  will  he  understand  it  better 
as  he  permits  its  influence  to  grow  upon  his 
mind  ?  How  is  it  in  the  case  of  any  other 
friend  ?  You  may  think  you  understand  him 
while  you  stand  off  from  him  and  study  him,  but 
you  probably  do  not  understand  him  at  all. 
You  come  to  know  him  only  as  you  come  to  love 
him.  The  more  you  empty  your  mind  of  impres- 
sions concerning  him,  the  more  impossible  it  is 
to  appreciate  or  admire  him.  You  give  yourself 
to  his  friendship,  and  then  you  find  that  friend- 
ship worth  having.  It  is  the  heart  that  is  quick 
with  sympathy  and  responsive  in  affection 
186 


Smntoap  (Etocnmp  m  t(je  College  Cbapcl 

which  wins  friends  and  discovers  the  deeper 
meaning  of  others'  lives.  So  it  is  in  the  criti- 
cism of  the  Gospels.  Some  men  expend  the 
most  serious  study  on  the  subject,  and  never 
touch  the  heart  of  it  after  all.  They  know 
everything  about  the  Bible,  but  they  have  not 
felt  the  spirit  of  the  Bible.  They  are  familiar 
with  the  records  of  the  life  of  Jesus,  but  they 
do  not  understand,  and  cannot  make  others 
understand,  wherein  the  power  of  the  life  of 
Jesus  lies.  They  have  freed  themselves  from 
prepossessions,  but  they  have,  at  the  same 
time,  forfeited  insight.  They  describe  the 
Bible,  but  they  do  not  interpret  the  Bible. 
They  criticise  Christ,  but  they  do  not  under- 
stand him.  Nay,  more :  having  emptied  their 
minds  of  impressions,  the  principle  of  the  va- 
cuum applies  once  more,  and  a  host  of  new 
and  extravagant  theories  rush  in  to  fill  the 
void.  These  very  students,  who  are  unmoved 
by  spiritual  sympathy,  may  be  peculiarly  sus- 
ceptible to  crude  interpretations  and  hasty 
conclusions.  If  the  mind  be  emptied  of  the 
faculty  of  appreciation,  back  will  crowd  into 
it  baser  occupants,  —  bitterness,  cynicism,  and 
contempt;  and  the  man  who  believes  himself 
emancipated  may  find  himself  a  slave. 
187 


ISmn&ap  (Etoeninjjs  in  t&e  College  Cljapel 

Such  seems  to  be  the  teaching  of  our  par- 
able concerning  the  intellectual  life.  Turn, 
once  more,  to  the  life  of  social  enjoyment  and 
recreation,  in  which  we  all  have  a  part,  and 
consider  its  lesson  there.  In  this  interchange 
of  courtesies  and  hospitalities  one  is  almost 
sure  to  feel  that  there  is  a  moral  risk ;  yet 
one  may  find  it  hard  to  determine  precisely 
where  that  risk  lies.  It  cannot  be  in  the  gai- 
ety or  even  the  frivolity  of  such  scenes.  It 
cannot  be  wrong  to  be  merry,  or  useless  to 
be  happy,  and  it  is  often  most  refreshing  to 
be  frivolous.  There  is  no  positive  evil  in  these 
social  relations  which  occupy  so  great  a  part 
of  so  many  lives.  What  one  has  to  fear  is 
this,  —  that  these  occupations,  which  seem  to 
fill  our  lives,  may  in  reality  empty  them  ;  that 
they  shall  provide  no  nourishment  of  thought 
or  feeling,  no  fortifying  of  will  or  heart ;  that  in 
this  whirling  mechanism  of  social  obligations 
one  may  lose  altogether  any  independent  per- 
sonality, and  become  one  more  thoughtless, 
heedless,  soulless  wheel  performing  its  revolu- 
tions with  the  rest.  This  kind  of  life  tends  to 
create  a  vacuum.  The  atmosphere  gets  over- 
heated, and  the  wholesome  air  is  drained 
away ;  and  in  the  emptiness  which  thus  en- 
188 


Smntjap  CnentnffS  in  tlje  College  Chapel 

sues  lies  the  opportunity  for  each  insidious 
sin.  Sometimes  it  is  like  the  coming  of  a 
cyclone  upon  some  peaceful  town.  The  over- 
heated air  shapes  itself  into  a  receptive  funnel, 
and  there  sweeps  into  its  emptiness  the  over- 
whelming force  of  some  great  passion  or  sin. 
Something  must  be  had  to  keep  life  full ;  if 
not  the  emotions  which  follow  healthy  work, 
then  the  emotions  of  morbid  imagination ;  if 
not  passions  turned  to  worthy  ends,  then 
passions  working  self-destruction.  It  is  not 
enough  to  say  of  one's  social  recreations  that 
they  are  harmless.  They  must,  in  addition, 
satisfy  the  demand  for  intellectual  occupancy, 
and  provide  permanent  tenants  for  one's 
spiritual  house. 

I  may  point  out  one  more  illustration  of 
the  parable.  It  is  in  the  conduct  of  philan- 
thropy. In  this  vast  and  generous  enterprise 
which  undertakes  to  help  the  poor,  the  vicious, 
the  degraded,  and  the  heathen,  and  amid  all 
its  blessings  and  beneficence,  there  is  this  dis- 
couraging risk,  which  sometimes  seems  to 
turn  all  this  kindness  into  a  curse.  It  is  the 
creation  of  the  sense  of  emptiness.  Take  away 
from  the  poor  man  the  resources  of  the  saloon, 
and  you  have  taken  out  of  his  life  one  of  the 
189 


£S>ttn&ap  Ctemiijjsi  in  t&e  College  Cfcapel 

few  things  which  made  it  cheerful  and  con- 
tented. What  shall  he  now  do  with  his  even- 
ings and  his  holidays  ?  All  you  have  done  is 
to  create  a  vacuum.  The  man  wanders  through 
dry  places,  seeking  rest  and  finding  none  ; 
and  you  are  still  far  from  having  saved  his 
soul.  Place  the  vicious  in  prison,  and,  while 
you  remove  him  from  reach  of  the  temptations 
of  crime,  you  remove  him  also  from  occupa- 
tions and  resources  ;  and  again  the  perils  of 
an  empty  life  ensue.  He  issues  from  this  con- 
finement and  idleness,  not  with  more  resolu- 
tion and  resistance,  but  with  nerves  relaxed, 
imagination  on  fire,  and  will  enfeebled.  His 
sentence  condemned  him  to  a  vacuum,  and  it 
longs  to  be  filled. 

Or  consider  the  contact  of  races,  higher 
with  lower,  American  with  Indian,  English 
with  Oriental.  What  sadder  fact  do  we  ob- 
serve than  the  evil  which  seems  to  infect  the 
lower  race  at  the  first  approach  of  the  higher  ? 
The  Indian  learns  the  white  man's  vices  and 
loses  his  own  virtues.  The  Mohammedan  out- 
grows the  restraints  of  his  own  faith  and,  as 
he  says,  lies  and  drinks  like  a  Christian.  Once 
more,  it  is  the  sense  of  a  vacuum.  Some- 
thing has  been  taken  out  of  these  lives.  They 
190 


^ttirtap  Gtaritp  in  t&c  Ccilctrc  £J)apel  . 

have  lost  faith  in  the  authority  which  once 
controlled  them.  The  superior  race  has  cast 
out  the  evil  spirits  which  seemed  harmful ; 
but  there  has  been  no  new  tenant  provided 
for  its  wards.  They  have  been  left  no  longer 
Indians,  yet  not  Americans  ;  no  longer  Ori- 
entals, yet  not  Europeans;  and  into  the  va- 
cuum thus  made  in  their  unguarded  wills 
there  have  rushed  the  evil  spirits  of  civilized 
life,  —  spirits  far  more  difficult  to  expel  than 
the  sins  of  barbarism,  — and  they  enter  in 
and  dwell  there,  the  shame  of  Christian  en- 
terprise and  modern  reform. 

It  is  not  enough,  then,  to  say  that  in  such 
dealings  with  poverty,  crime,  and  un-Christian- 
ized  nations  philanthropy  doesbut  half  its  work. 
It  introduces  a  new  danger,  and  one  which  it 
is  most  unjust  to  add.  Temperance  agitation 
has  no  right  to  take  away  from  the  poor  the 
warmth  and  comfort  of  their  great  tempta- 
tion, unless  it  proceeds  at  the  same  time  to 
fill  that  vacuum  with  the  warmth  and  comfort 
to  be  found  in  better  places  of  resort.  Prison 
discipline  is  engaged  in  a  fruitless  task,  un- 
less it  restore  the  prisoner  to  society  with  his 
mind  in  some  degree  preoccupied  by  purposes 
which  exclude  the  ways  of  crime.  The  mis- 
191 


Strntap  (Kbeninfffi  in  t|>e  College  Cfjapel 

sionary  work  of  Christians,  with  all  its  splen- 
did self-sacrifices,  carries  a  new  danger  to 
heathen  nations  if  it  does  not,  first  of  all, 
bridge  the  chasm  between  the  relaxing  stand- 
ards of  the  old  faith  and  the  untried  influences 
of  the  new. 

This  indeed  is  true,  not  only  of  teaching 
the  heathen,  but  of  all  preaching  and  instruc- 
tion in  religion.  To  take  away  from  a  hearer 
the  support  of  what  seemed  the  truth  is  not 
merely  to  do  but  half  one's  work  :  it  is  to  en- 
counter a  new  danger.  There  are  no  people 
so  easily  the  victims  of  foolish  superstitions 
and  modern  substitutes  for  faith  as  those  who 
have  been  taught  the  folly  of  their  old  ways 
and  have  learned  no  better  ones.  They  feel 
the  vacuum  of  conviction,  and  any  conviction 
is  better  than  none.  They  have  been  led  out 
from  the  land  of  bondage  into  the  wilderness, 
but  have  been  left  there.  The  only  way  to 
deliver  people  from  their  errors  is  by  preach- 
ing to  them  eternal  truth.  A  new  gospel  de- 
mands, not  negative  preaching,  but  the  most 
affirmative  of  all.  No  man  has  any  right  to 
create  a  vacuum  of  the  heart.  Or,  rather,  any 
man  who  tries  to  do  this  destructive  work  is 
attempting  that  which  is  impossible.  He  is 
192 


gmitfjap  (Bbminsfi  in  tljc  College  C&apel 

creating  a  void  into  which  will  rush  the  worst 
of  occupants.  He  takes  away  conviction  ;  and 
license  and  lawlessness  creep  in.  He  banishes 
the  superstitions  of  the  past,  and  the  supersti- 
tions of  the  present  take  their  place.  He  cries, 
"I  have  emptied,  swept,  and  garnished  my 
house,  and  am  free "  ;  and,  even  while  he 
congratulates  himself  on  his  freedom,  some 
paltry,  modern  sophistry  captures  his  will, 
and  his  last  state  is  worse  than  the  first. 

These  various  ways  in  which  the  principle 
of  the  vacuum  expresses  itself  lead,  finally,  to 
the  truth  which  the  parable  seems  designed  to 
teach.  It  is  nothing  less  than  the  fundamental 
principle  of  the  Christian  life ;  the  way  in 
which  —  according  to  Christianity —  the  sins 
and  evils  of  this  world  are  to  be  overcome. 
How  is  it  that  human  beings  are  to  be  rid  of 
the  unruly  tenants  of  their  hearts  ?  A  soul, 
answers  the  parable,  is  saved  only  when  it  is 
full.  A  sound  Christian  conversion  leaves  no 
room  for  the  old  sins  to  return.  There  is  a 
large  class  of  physical  diseases  afflicting  the 
animal  world  which  are  called  parasitic.  They 
come  of  one  kind  of  life  fastening  on  another 
kind  of  life,  and  drawing  support  from  it;  and 
they  are  for  the  most  part  to  be  conquered  in 

193 


i&tmfcap  ©bemngsi  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

but  one  way,  —  not  by  killing  the  parasite, 
but  by  strengthening  the  organism.  When  the 
animal  is  sufficiently  vigorous,  then  the  para- 
site dies.  Sin  is  a  parasitic  growth.  It  fastens 
on  weakness.  It  takes  possession  of  empti- 
ness. The  way  to  conquer  it  is  to  exclude  it. 
The  way  to  prevent  its  occupancy  is  to  be  pre- 
occupied with  righteousness.  The  way  to  over- 
come evil  is  to  overcome  it  with  good.  The 
passions  of  life  were  not  meant  to  be  destroyed ; 
they  were  meant  to  be  disciplined.  God  does 
not  ask  a  man  to  empty  himself  of  ambitions  ; 
he  bids  him  be  full  of  ambitions  which  are  fit 
to  be  permanent  tenants  of  his  heart.  The 
same  force  that  goes  to  make  a  great  sinner 
may  go  to  make  a  true  saint.  A  soul  is  not 
saved  when  the  force  is  taken  out  of  it ;  it  is 
the  superior  and  expulsive  force  of  a  new 
ambition  which  completes  one's  conversion. 

Here  is  the  point  in  which  the  New  Testa- 
ment makes  a  transition  from  the  Old.  Under 
the  earlier  teaching  the  good  life  was  defined 
as  the  driving  out  of  evil  spirits.  It  was  a  neg- 
ative, an  expulsive  law.  Thou  shalt  not  kill  or 
steal  or  bear  false  witness.  Then  comes  the 
final  prophet,  John  the  Baptist,  standing  in 
the  approaching  dawn  of  the  new  order,  and 
194 


ISmn&ap  Ctoenmss  in  t[je  College  C&apel 

repeating  once  more  the  same  Hebrew  mes- 
sage in  his  people's  ears.  "  Repent,"  he  cries. 
"Be  baptized  with  water  to  the  putting  off  of 
your  sins."  Yet  the  spirit  of  prophecy  reveals 
to  him,  beyond  his  own  message,  a  higher 
teaching.  "  I  baptize  you  with  water,"  he  says. 
It  is  the  freeing  of  life  from  its  evil  spirits, 
the  washing  of  life  clean  of  its  stains.  "  But 
there  cometh  one  after  me  who  is  mightier 
than  I.  He  shall  baptize  you  with  the  Holy 
Ghost  and  with  fire."  What  is  the  baptism 
by  fire  ?  It  is  that  which  not  only  cleanses 
the  heart,  but  inflames  the  heart ;  that  which 
not  only  empties  life  of  its  old  passions,  but 
stirs  it  to  new  enthusiasms  and  lights  the  fire 
of  new  ideals  ;  that  which  leaves  the  soul  not 
empty,  but  full.  Such  is  the  step  in  which 
one  passes  from  the  ministry  of  the  Baptist 
to  the  ministry  of  Jesus  Christ.  From  the 
baptism  by  water  to  the  baptism  by  fire,  from 
purity  to  passion,  from  emptiness  to  fulness, 
—  by  these  successive  steps  the  salvation  of 
a  soul  is  made  complete.  One  may  content 
himself  with  a  passive  Christianity,  with  a 
negative  morality,  with  a  conventional  faith, 
with  the  expelling  of  faults  and  sins.  It  is  the 
baptism  by  water.  It  is  the  casting  out  of  the 

*95 


Stmto;  €benitiff0  in  t[)e  College  C&apel 

unclean  spirits.  It  is  the  discipleship  of  John 
the  Baptist.  It  is  not  the  positiveness  and 
efficiency  of  the  Christian  life.  Then,  across 
this  passive  and  conventional  discipleship 
there  may  come  the  vision  of  a  new  affection, 
a  commanding  loyalty,  which  sets  life  aglow 
and  aflame,  and  redeems  from  the  old  ways 
because  it  is  preoccupied  by  new  desires. 
That  affection  turned  to  the  way  of  Christ 
makes  one  a  Christian.  It  is  not  water  alone 
that  touches  him  ;  it  is  fire.  It  is  not  empti- 
ness that  has  saved  him;  it  is  fulness.  He 
hears  no  more  the  word  of  the  Baptist,  bid- 
ding him  abandon  his  old  ways  ;  for  he  re- 
members that  which  was  written  of  the  Mas- 
ter, "  Of  his  fulness  have  we  received,  and 
grace  for  grace." 


196 


XII 
PILATE 

A  Sermon  on  Palm  Sunday 

Pilate  saith  unto  him :  What  is  Truth  ?  And  when  he  had 
said  this,  he  went  out  again  unto  the  Jews,  and  saith  unto 
them,  I  find  in  him  no  fault. — John  xviii,  38. 

jE  are  called  to-day  to  commemorate 
the  last  week  of  the  life  of  Jesus 
Christ.  The  chronology  of  the  Gospel 
is,  for  the  most  part,  obscure.  Critics  differ 
about  the  length  of  the  ministry  of  Jesus  and 
the  time  when  each  incident  occurred,  but  in 
their  record  of  these  last  days  all  the  narra- 
tives converge.  The  events  of  each  day  range 
themselves  in  order,  and  it  is  possible  to  trace 
with  accuracy  the  way  of  Jesus  from  the  tri- 
umph of  Palm  Sunday  to  the  tragedy  upon 
the  cross.  And  most  significant  of  all  these 
scenes  of  Passion  Week  is  the  meeting  of 
Jesus  with  Pilate  :  the  Roman  Governor  face 
to  face  with  the  Jewish  Christ ;  the  kingdom 
of  the  world  confronting  the  kingdom  of  God. 

*97 


gmnfcap  ©bening*  in  t&e  College  Cfjapel 

It  is  the  last  opportunity  which  Jesus  has  to 
make  public  declaration  of  his#  purpose  and 
hope ;  the  last  chance  to  render  to  Caesar  a 
report  of  the  things  of  God.  What  the  Church 
calls  the  passion  of  Jesus  is  in  fact  ended  when 
he  departs  from  the  judgment-hall  of  Pilate. 
From  this  point  onward  to  the  cross  his  steps 
have  the  firmness  and  tranquillity  of  one  who, 
in  the  presence  of  outward  turbulence  and 
hostility,  has  inward  assurance  and  peace. 
"  Father,"  he  says,  "  it  is  finished."  "  I  have 
accomplished  that  which  was  given  me  to  do." 
"  My  peace  I  leave  unto  you."  "  I  have  over- 
come the  world." 

For  to-day,  then,  let  us  think  of  this  judge 
of  Jesus,  the  first  man  to  sit  as  a  critic  on  the 
claims  of  Christ ;  and  instead  of  observing  the 
judgment  of  Pilate  on  the  case,  let  us  consider 
the  judgment  of  history  concerning  Pilate  him- 
self. Few  persons  in  history  would  be  so  sur- 
prised as  Pilate  at  the  place  which  has  come 
to  be  his.  If  there  was  anything  which  seemed 
certain  to  him,  it  was  that  he  was  not  en- 
tangled in  the  case  of  Jesus.  What,  indeed, 
had  a  Roman  Governor  to  do  with  this  petty 
issue  raised  among  the  turbulent  Jews  ? 
Pilate's  only  purpose  was  to  maintain  a  rigid 
198 


Smntoap  £tocmnffg  in  tfce  Colltjc  C&apel 

neutrality  toward  the  whole  troublesome  case ; 
and  he  had  good  reason  for  thinking  that  he 
was  elaborately  successful.  Notice  how  he  pro- 
ceeds. First,  he  declines  to  judge  the  case  at 
all  "Take  him  yourselves,"  he  says,  "and 
judge  him  according  to  your  law."  Then  with 
a  languid  interest  he  calls  Jesus  into  the  pal- 
ace and  questions  him,  but  refuses  to  be  led 
into  controversy.  "Am  I  a  Jew?"  he  asks. 
Finally,  he  determines  so  to  act  as  to  act  on 
neither  side.  He  goes  out  to  the  people  and 
says :  "  I  find  in  him  no  fault "  ;  but  then 
returns  and  says  to  the  priests  :  "  Take  him 
yourselves  and  crucify  him."  He  washes 
his  hands  in  public,  saying,  "  I  am  innocent 
of  the  blood  of  this  just  person  "  ;  and  forth- 
with proceeds  in  private  to  deliver  Jesus  to  be 
scourged  and  crucified.  It  was  a  fine  poising 
of  the  judicial  mind.  He  had  cultivated  the 
habit  of  not  committing  himself.  He  was  not  a 
scoffer  or  jester.  Bacon  says  of  him,  " '  What 
is  Truth  ?'  said  jesting  Pilate,  and  would  not 
stay  for  an  answer."  But  a  gentleman  would 
not  stoop  to  jesting  as  he  sat  on  the  bench  in 
a  criminal  case.  Pilate  was  simply  disinclined 
to  take  sides,  constitutionally  cautious,  the 
neutral,  the  critic,  the  indifferentist,  among 
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&ttnto?  (Etoetunfffli  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

the  men  of  the  New  Testament.  It  was  said 
of  a  distinguished  American  jurist  that  he 
finally  retired  from  the  bench  because  he  could 
not  there  escape  making  decisions.  Pilate  was 
this  kind  of  a  man.  The  French  statesman, 
Talleyrand,  writing  in  his  old  age  of  the  qual- 
ities of  a  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs,  said  : 
"  He  ought  to  be  gifted  with  a  kind  of  instinct 
which  prevents  him  from  committing  himself." 
Pilate  was  a  good  example  of  the  school  of 
Talleyrand.  Here  was  this  young  enthusiast 
who  had  so  stirred  the  people  by  the  kingly 
declaration  of  his  mission,  "To  this  end  was  I 
born,  that  I  should  bear  witness  of  the  Truth  " ; 
and  Pilate,  the  consistent  neutral,  looks  down 
on  him  with  serious  pity  and  answers,  "  Ah, 
my  young  friend,  what  is  this  illusion  for  which 
you  want  to  die  ?  Die  for  it,  then,  if  you  will ! 
I  find  no  fault  in  you ;  I  wash  my  hands  of 
blame.  You  bring  your  fate  upon  yourself." 
And  so,  dismissing  this  case  of  an  alien,  he 
retires  into  his  palace,  well  content  with  him- 
self because  he  has  been  neither  ensnared  by 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  reformer  nor  misled  by 
the  bigotry  of  the  mob. 

That,  I  suppose,  was  the  judgment  of  Pilate 
upon  himself.  But,  certainly,  that  is  not  the 


gmntoap  Ctoeiungfi  in  t\>e  College  CfoaDel 

judgment  of  history  concerning  him.  History 
refuses  to  hold  him  blameless.  The  neutrality 
which  he  attempted  to  maintain  was  an  im- 
possible neutrality.  Each  character  in  the  New 
Testament  comes  at  last  to  be  estimated  by 
its  relation  to  one  central  figure.  A  great 
wind,  as  Jesus  said,  was  blowing  across  the 
threshing-floor  of  the  nation,  and  people  were 
taken  up  by  it  and  sorted  into  two  distinct 
heaps.  Those  that  were  not  to  be  reckoned 
for  Christ  were  counted  against  him :  those 
that  were  not  against  him  were  for  him;  and 
there  was  no  grain  left  over  which  could  be 
called  neither  chaff  nor  wheat.  And,  as  for 
Pilate,  the  would-be  neutral,  his  place  is  fixed 
forever.  He  takes  his  stand  among  the  re- 
sponsible agents  of  the  death  of  Jesus.  The 
great  word  had  come  directly  to  him  :  "  Every 
one  that  is  of  the  truth  heareth  my  voice  "  ; 
and  he,  not  hearing  it,  takes  sides  in  the  case 
in  spite  of  himself.  It  is  like  the  story  of  those 
unclean  spirits  who  cried  to  Jesus  :  "  Let 
us  alone !  What  have  we  to  do  with  thee " ; 
but  even  while  they  protested  that  they  had 
nothing  to  do  with  him,  found  themselves 
judged  and  cast  out,  and  the  man  made  whole. 
When  we  survey  this  last  week  of  the  life  of 
201 


gmttfrap  flfrjemnga  in  tlje  College  Cfcapel 

Jesus,  moving  on  from  its  triumph  of  Palm 
Sunday  to  its  cross  of  Friday,  the  critical  de- 
cision is  seen  to  lie  in  the  inactivity  of  the  un- 
decided Pilate.  From  that  point  began  the 
extinguishing  of  popular  enthusiasm,  the  slack- 
ening of  spiritual  loyalty.  Even  Judas  might 
not  have  gained  his  end  if  it  had  not  been  for 
Pilate.  "  Shall  I  crucify  your  king  ?  "  asks  the 
Roman  neutral ;  and  then  delivers  him  unto 
them  to  be  crucified. 

What  does  this  impossible  neutrality  mean, 
—  this  thwarting  of  Pilate's  sincere  intention 
to  be  just,  and  counting  him  on  the  side 
of  the  persecutors ;  this  responsibility  for 
results  where  Pilate  expressly  disclaimed  re- 
sponsibility ?  It  means  that  we  have  passed 
the  limits  of  neutrality  and  are  among  the 
issues  where  a  man,  whether  he  will  or  no, 
has  to  take  sides.  In  every  life  there  are  many 
problems  about  which  the  only  reasonable  at- 
titude is  one  of  neutrality.  You  do  not  know, 
and  have  no  right  to  judge  ;  and  to  pretend 
to  know  is  foolish  and  false.  True  wisdom 
begins  with  the  wholesome  confession  of  a 
great  area  of  ignorance.  Round  the  horizon  of 
the  known  stretches  the  mystery  of  the  un- 
known and  the  unknowable.  But,  on  the  other 
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^mntoap  ©tJtninfffi  in  t&e  College  Cfcapcl 

hand,  there  are  some  immediate  and  universal 
interests  where  neutrality  becomes  impossible ; 
there  are  issues  and  decisions  in  which  it  is 
not  only  true  to  say  that  you  ought  to  have 
your  part,  but  where  it  must  be  said  that  you 
do  have  a  part  whether  you  wish  it  or  not. 
And  one  of  the  most  elementary  problems  of 
human  experience  is  to  distinguish  between 
the  interests  where  it  is  possible  to  be  an  out- 
sider, and  the  cases  where  one  is  forced  to  take 
sides.  To  be  a  neutral  in  the  one  class  of  cases 
is  simply  to  confess  the  healthy  limitations  of 
your  knowledge ;  to  be  a  neutral  in  the  other 
class  of  cases  is  to  find  yourself  inevitably  com- 
mitted to  a  position  which  you  do  not  in  the 
least  desire  to  hold.  That  was  the  case  with 
Pilate.  He  happened  to  be  brought  face  to 
face  with  an  issue  where  neutrality  was  impos- 
sible, and  he  thought  it  was  a  case  where  he 
could  wash  his  hands  of  blame.  He  was  busy 
in  the  palace  with  what  seemed  to  him  the 
important  things  of  life.  He  had  his  report  to 
write  to  the  Emperor ;  he  had  his  list  of  tax- 
able Jews  to  prepare  ;  his  soldiers  were  wait- 
ing to  be  reviewed ;  he  was  eager  to  get  back 
to  the  quiet  of  his  study  among  the  parchment 
rolls  of  his  Plato  or  his  Cicero.  For  one  or 
203 


gmnttap  ©ijeninffg  in  t|>e  College  C&apel 

another  of  these  important  things  he  might  be 
almost  an  enthusiast ;  but  as  for  this  Jewish 
problem  of  a  spiritual  Messiah,  this  exagger- 
ated talk  of  a  kingdom  of  the  truth,  he  really 
did  not  care  enough  to  interest  himself.  He 
falls  back  upon  his  cultivated  indifferentism, 
his  philosophy  of  contempt,  and  out  of  his  own 
mouth  he  is  judged  forever.  "  Pilate  saith  unto 
him,  '  What  is  Truth  ?'  "  and  "  then  delivered 
he  him  unto  them  to  be  crucified." 

What,  then,  are  these  limitations  of  neu- 
trality, as  they  disclose  themselves  in  modern 
life ;  and  who  are  the  Pilates  of  the  modern 
world,  responsible  for  results  which  they  have 
no  intention  to  produce  ?  In  the  first  place, 
now  as  in  the  days  of  Jesus,  it  is  impossible 
to  be  neutral  towards  the  truth.  One  may 
be  neutral  toward  many  aspects  of  the  truth. 
One  need  not  pretend  to  know  the  whole 
truth.  One  may  maintain  the  modesty,  sin- 
cerity, impartiality  of  the  truth-seeker's  mind. 
But  the  neutral  toward  truth  is  not  the  rev- 
erent seeker;  he  is  the  man  who  does  not 
care  to  know.  He  is  the  critic,  the  dilettante, 
the  looker-on.  He  dissects,  he  does  not  create. 
When  the  lover  of  the  truth  comes  before  him 
with  his  message,  "  Every  one  that  is  of  the 
204 


^unUap  (Etoeninffs  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

truth  heareth  my  voice";  then  the  neutral, 
with  refined  superiority,  replies:  "What  is 
truth  ? "  and  withdraws  into  the  palace  of  his 
own  self-content. 

Here  is  the  chief  peril  of  the  educated  mind. 
The  dimensions  and  many-sidedness  of  truth 
become  so  impressive  that  they  may  crush  one's 
energies  and  baffle  one's  decisions.  The  little 
that  one  knows  shrinks  back  before  the  vast- 
ness  of  the  unknown ;  until,  at  last,  the  instinct 
for  truth  is  displaced  by  an  instinct  for  error ; 
instead  of  the  power  of  creation  there  is  left 
only  the  habit  of  criticism  ;  instead  of  a  scholar 
there  is  left  only  the  dilettante,  the  amateur, 
the  cynic,  the  looker-on.  No  product  of  educa- 
tion is  so  melancholy  as  this  intellectual  neu- 
trality, and  none  is  so  self-deceived.  Such  a 
man  is  inclined  to  think  himself  an  intellectual 
aristocrat.  He  is  not  ensnared  in  vulgar  en- 
thusiasms. He  has  no  faith  in  intellectual  Mes- 
siahs. He  has  learned  so  much  of  truth  that  he 
has  lost  his  enthusiasm  for  truth.  "What  is 
Truth  ?"  he  asks  and  stays  not  for  an  answer. 
But  does  he  succeed  in  maintaining  this  aca- 
demic neutrality  ?  On  the  contrary,  he  is  the 
most  insidious  enemy  of  truth.  His  weapon 
against  the  truth  is  more  destructive  than  an 
205 


JSmnfcap  (£benmg;s  in  tljc  College  Chapel 

argument ;  it  is  a  sneer.  He  does  not  drive  the 
truth-seeker  out  of  his  position,  he  freezes  him 
out.  He  does  not  return  the  fire  of  discussion, 
he  dampens  the  powder  with  which  others 
fight.  Such  people  are,  as  Mr.  Lowell  said,  the 
signs  of  an  age  which  "  lectures,  not  creates." 

"  Plastering  our  swallow-nests  on  the  awful  Past, 
And  twittering  round  the  works  of  larger  men 
As  we  had  builded  what  we  but  deface." 

More  than  this :  the  mind  habitually  inclined 
to  the  critical  habit  becomes  not  only  an  ob- 
struction to  creative  work  in  others,  but  inca- 
pable of  such  work  itself.  The  glow  and  pas- 
sion of  work  are  lost  in  cleverness  or  satire  or 
technical  skill.  The  great  ideals  of  literature 
and  art  are  forgotten  in  the  taste  for  accuracy 
and  the  dread  of  excess.  When  metal  is  re- 
fined it  must  be  heated ;  but  when  men  are 
refined  they  are  often  cooled ;  and  the  cooling 
of  intellectual  enthusiasm  leaves  a  mass  of  in- 
tellectual slag.  Such  is  the  self-deception  of 
the  neutral.  He  views  the  truth  from  Pilate's 
judgment-seat,  with  no  thought  of  taking 
sides ;  when,  in  fact,  he  is  as  responsible  for 
the  defeat  of  the  truth  as  if  he  nailed  it  to  its 
cross. 

I  go  on,  once  more,  to  say  that  one  cannot 
206 


f&mtfiap  (Etoenintrs  in  t&c  College  C&apel 

be  neutral  toward  duty.  He  may  not  do  his 
whole  duty ;  he  may  not  even  know  sometimes 
what  his  duty  is  ;  but  when  it  happens  that 
his  duty  unmistakably  confronts  him  with  its 
demands,  then  there  is  no  such  thing  as  neu- 
trality ;  and  the  would-be  neutral  is  judged  by 
the  duty  he  neglects,  as  Pilate  is  judged  by 
the  Christ  in  whom  he  finds  no  fault.  When, 
for  instance,  a  problem  of  public  morals  or 
political  reform  comes  before  a  community, 
it  is  not  enough  to  say  that  many  citizens  are 
neutral  about  it  and  a  few  have  to  grapple 
with  it.  The  truth  is  that  the  few  have  to  over- 
come, not  only  the  evil  itself,  but  also  the 
dead-weight  of  social  inertia  and  pre-occupa- 
tion.  The  would-be  neutrals  are  the  most  pro- 
voking and  subtle  of  opponents.  They  are  the 
Copperheads  of  the  moral  war,  who  fancy 
themselves  non-combatants  but  in  reality  at- 
tack in  the  rear. 

Or  when,  again,  a  problem  of  personal  con- 
duct presents  itself  with  an  unmistakable  de- 
mand there  is  no  such  thing  as  neutrality  in 
its  presence.  One  of  our  periodicals  not  long 
ago  contained  an  article,  written,  to  be  sure, 
by  a  very  young  man,  which  spoke  of  the 
"  fetish,  called  duty  "  ;  and  one  could  not  help 
207 


gmntfap  ©toenitiffg  in  t&e  ColUge  Cljapel 

thinking  what  rich  lessons  experience  would 
have  to  teach  one  who  had  come  to  the  point 
of  authorship  and  had  learned  no  more  of  life 
than  this.  The  fetish,  called  duty!  It  is  as  if 
a  young  soldier  with  his  uniform  just  put  on 
should  talk  of  the  superstition  called  disci- 
pline. It  is  the  first  restlessness  of  the  raw 
recruit.  But  let  such  a  recruit  come  to  a  real 
battle,  let  a  real  enemy  descend  upon  him 
in  one  awful  charge,  and  then  there  is  but  one 
thing  which  gives  the  soldier  calmness  and 
self-control  as  he  stands  in  the  ranks,  and  that 
is  the  habit  of  discipline  wrought  into  an  in- 
stinct of  obedience.  What  is  the  peril  most 
besetting  our  modern  social  life,  if  it  be  not 
this  sort  of  moral  neutrality  ?  It  is  not  the 
wickedness  of  the  social  world  which  is  most 
alarming,  it  is  its  irresponsibility.  To  live  in 
peace,  to  avoid  extremes,  to  mind  one's  own 
affairs,  to  keep  out  of  trouble, —  so  Pilate  sur- 
vives to-day ;  and  before  such  a  man  the 
great  moments  of  opportunity  come  up  as 
Jesus  came  to  the  judgment-seat,  and  are 
waved  away  with  a  smile.  "  Blessed  is  the 
man,"  says  the  first  Psalm,  "who  sitteth  not 
in  the  seat  of  the  scorner."  The  scorner  is 
never  on  his  feet,  actively  helping  the  world's 
208 


Strntap  ©toeninaa  in  t&e  College  Cljapel 

work.  He  sits  in  his  seat  and  scorns,  and  the 
world's  work  passes  him  by.  And,  on  the  other 
hand,  what  gives  courage  to  each  act  of  duty 
is  this  —  that  at  least  you  have  taken  sides. 
You  may  not  expect  to  accomplish  much  ;  you 
may  try  and  fail.  You  may  take  your  part 
without  visible  effect.  Your  sincerity  may  be 
distrusted,  you  may  be  misinterpreted  and  de- 
feated, until  you  think  of  your  Master  and  the 
cross  he  bore.  But  one  great  blessing  comes 
to  you,  as  it  must  have  come  to  him,  by  the 
doing  of  your  duty.  It  is  the  sense  of  loyalty. 
You  have  not  sat  in  the  seat  of  the  scorner. 
You  have  stood  in  your  place  in  the  ranks. 
The  line  has  not  been  broken  at  you.  It  may 
not  be  for  you  to  win  the  battle,  but  at  least 
the  battle  is  not  lost  through  you.  At  least 
you  have  not  the  permanent  sorrow  of  the 
runaway :  — 

"  And  this  one  thought  of  hope  and  trust 
Comes  with  its  soothing  balm, 
As  here  I  lay  my  brow  in  dust 
And  breathe  my  lowly  psalm. 
That  not  for  heights  of  victory  won, 
But  those  I  tried  to  gain, 
Will  come  my  gracious  Lord's  '  Well  done ! ' 
And  sweet  effacing  rain." 


209 


^uaUap  ©benmfffi  in  fyt  College  Cljapel 

I  come,  then,  to  one  more  subject  where 
neutrality  is  impossible.  It  is  religion.  There 
are  a  great  many  things  which  concern  religion 
about  which  one  may  well  be  neutral.  Indeed, 
there  are  many  times  when  one  ought  to  be 
neutral  because  one  does  not  know.  The  his- 
tory of  religion  is  strewn  with  the  wrecks  of 
systems  of  omniscience  ;  and  the  controversies 
of  theology  to-day  are  largely  concerned  with 
subjects  concerning  which  the  only  wisdom  is 
in  the  confession  of  wise  ignorance.  The  first 
step  in  sound  theology  is  the  confession  of  the 
great  number  of  things  you  do  not  know.  But 
as  to  religion  itself,  —  that  practical  way  of 
living  of  which  theology  is  the  philosophy,  — 
the  natural  and  human  confession  of  depend- 
ence and  loyalty,  —  as  to  this  there  can  be  no 
neutrality.  If  one  maintain  the  habits  of  re- 
ligion, that,  so  far,  is  a  testimony  of  loyalty ; 
and  if  one  does  not  keep  such  habits,  if  he 
secularizes  his  Sunday,  and  abandons  worship, 
and  practically  paganizes  life, — then  it  is  quite 
in  vain  to  say  that  he  finds  no  fault  with  re- 
ligion ;  or  wants  it  when  he  marries  or  dies, 
and  washes  his  hands  of  it  for  the  rest  of 
his  life.  Even  so,  Pilate  was,  in  his  opinion, 
misjudged  when  he  was  called  an  enemy  of 


iSmntoap  (Ktoenmg;*  in  t()e  CoIIeffc  Cljapel 

Christ.  But  that  is  the  very  point.  He  had 
to  be  misjudged.  He  put  himself  where  he 
could  not  help  being  counted  in  the  opposi- 
tion. He  was  like  a  soldier  who  is  found,  while 
the  battle  is  going  on,  among  the  camp-fol- 
lowers in  the  rear.  He  may  explain  that  he 
stopped  to  tie  his  shoe,  but  he  must  face  the 
charge  of  shirking  until  he  reappears  at  the 
front.  It  is  an  impossible  neutrality.  He  that 
is  not  with  the  army  is  against  it. 

There  are  many  unfortunate  controversies 
still  lingering  in  the  theological  world,  and 
to  many  of  us  these  issues  appear  so  remote 
and  superfluous  that  they  are  not  worth  the 
powder  with  which  the  battle  is  fought. 
But  the  real  peril  of  the  time  does  not  lie 
here.  It  lies  in  the  reaction  from  these  issues  ; 
not  in  the  answers  given  to  such  problems, 
but  in  the  neutrality  toward  all  religious 
questions  which  so  many  people  accept  as  the 
outcome  of  such  debates.  It  may  be  a  waste 
of  time  for  Christians  to  debate  whether  they 
may  worship  together ;  but  it  is  still  more  un- 
fortunate to  react  into  indifference  toward 
worshipping  at  all.  It  is  better  to  worship  in 
various  churches  and  by  exclusive  forms  than 
to  sit  in  the  scorner's  seat,  and  judge  all  wor- 

211 


J&mnfcap  (Ktoeninp  in  t|>e  College  Cfcapel 

ship  vain.  It  is  better  to  discuss  hotly  the 
authority  of  the  Bible  than  to  have  no  acquain- 
tance with  the  Bible.  It  is  better  to  debate 
about  progressive  sanctifi cation  after  death 
than  to  have  no  desire  for  progressive  sancti- 
fication  before  death.  "  It  is  better,"  as  Phil- 
lips Brooks  once  said,  "  to  worship  in  a  hun- 
dred places  where  God  is  not,  than  to  neglect 
to  worship  [in  one  place  where  He  is."  All 
these  feverish  activities  and  sectarian  con- 
troversies have  at  least  this  sign  of  good,  — 
that  they  indicate  a  serious  interest  in  re- 
ligion, a  devotion  to  truth  so  far  as  it  has  been 
made  clear ;  and  out  of  such  controversies  there 
is  much  more  likely  to  issue  a  permanent 
spiritual  vitality  than  is  to  come  from  com- 
placent neutrality  or  intellectual  conceit. 

Such,  then,  is  Pilate  in  our  modern  life,  — 
the  superior  person,  restrained  and  worldly- 
wise,  emancipated  from  vulgar  enthusiasms, 
not  entangled  in  other  people's  troubles,  un- 
affected by  the  majesty  of  truth  even  when 
it  stands  straight  before  his  face.  And  over 
against  this  jaunty  neutrality  stands,  to-day,  as 
it  stood  in  this  Passion  Week  in  Jerusalem, 
the  spirit  of  Jesus  Christ,  the  erect  and  self- 
respecting  faith  of  man  in  communion  with 

212 


&un&ap  (Knenintrfi  in  tlje  College  (JDfrapel 

the  Eternal.  Over  against  the  trimmer  in 
political  life  stands  the  loyal  worker  for  poli- 
tical reform ;  over  against  the  literary  critic 
with  his  fine  contempt  stands  the  creative 
scholar  with  his  unstained  ideals  and  aims. 
Before  the  self-indulgent  woman  of  the  con- 
ventional world,  smiling  at  the  folly  of  serious 
views,  stands  the  woman  who  has  found  a 
great  new  joy  in  the  service  of  less  favored 
lives.  I  see  these  types  of  the  Christian  life 
coming  up  one  by  one  to-day  before  Pilate's 
judgment-seat.  I  see  the  patient  student  stand 
before  the  scoffing  critic ;  I  see  the  persistent 
reformer  smiled  at  by  the  stay-at-home ;  I  see 
the  self-forgetting  servant  of  the  common 
good  fail,  and  the  self-indulgent  time-server 
succeed ;  I  see  the  life  that  tries  to  be  faith- 
ful bearing  heavy  burdens,  and  the  life  that 
is  content  to  be  worldly  gain  its  end.  It 
is  all  as  if  Jesus  Christ  passed  once  more 
from  Pilate's  judgment-hall  to  the  agony 
of  Gethsemane,  while  Pilate  withdrew  once 
more  behind  his  curtains  to  the  composure  of 
his  self-satisfied  life ;  as  if  the  Christian  life 
had  still  to  defend  itself,  and  the  neutral  had 
but  to  judge  and  go;  as  if  right  were  forever 
on  the  scaffold  and  wrong  forever  on  the 
213 


gmntrap  ©betungs  m  t&e  College  Cljapel 

throne.  I  see  the  intellectual  dilettantism  of 
the  present  day,  and  its  moral  levity,  and  its 
religious  indifferentism,  sitting  onthescorner's 
judgment-seat,  and  I  hear  their  light-hearted 
fling  of,  "  What  is  Truth  ? "  as  they  go  their 
way  of  self-satisfied  success.  And  then  I  wait ; 
and  I  see  these  Pilates  of  the  present  time, 
like  him  who  thought  he  sat  in  judgment  on 
the  Christ,  have  their  little  day  of  imaginary 
importance,  and  then  simply  shrivel  up  into 
specks  in  the  world's  history ;  remembered  only 
because  they  happened  one  day  to  stand  near 
the  life  which  they  jauntily  condemned.  And  I 
see  the  faithful  servants  of  the  truth,  as  they 
go  their  way  with  their  crosses  upon  their 
shoulders,  finishing  the  work  that  is  given 
them  to  do  ;  and  they  have  the  confident  step 
of  those  whose  passion  is  a  victory,  whose 
cross  is  a  crown,  and  whose  place  is  not  among 
the  Caesars  but  among  the  saviours,  not  with 
the  courtiers  of  Pilate  but  with  the  disciples  of 
Christ. 


214 


XIII 

THE   POWER   OF  THE  ENDLESS 
LIFE* 

A  Sermon  on  Easter  Sunday 

Who  is  made,  not  after  the  law  of  a  carnal  command- 
ment, but  after  the  power  of  an  endless  life.  — Heb.  vn,  16. 

^|HE  contrast  is  between  two  kinds  of 
motives.  A  law  is  an  outward  regu- 
i  lation ;  a  power  is  an  inward  force. 
One  sort  of  life,  the  passage  says,  is  gov- 
erned by  law,  with  its  external  enforcement. 
Another  sort  of  life  is  inspired  by  power, 
with  its  interior  control.  No  word  is  more 
characteristic  of  the  New  Testament  than 
this  word,  Power.  It  is  the  word  in  Greek 
from  which  we  get  our  modern  words,  dynamic 
and  dynamo.  "  His  word,"  it  is  written  of 
Jesus,  "  was  with  power."  It  was  a  dynamic 
word.  "  To  them  he  gave  power,"  it  was  said 
of  him.    "That  the  dynamic  of  Christ  may 

1  Cf.    Mornings  in  the  College  Chapely    Second  Series, 
p.  190. 

2J5 


g>tmtoap  (Atoning;*  in  t&e  College  Chapel 

rest  upon  them,"  prays  the  Apostle  Paul.  The 
New  Testament,  that  is  to  say,  is  a  kind 
of  power-house,  where  the  motive-power  of 
the  life  of  Jesus  is  set  in  communication  with 
the  life  of  the  world.  In  our  text  this  sense 
of  power  is  still  further  discovered,  not  only 
in  the  life  of  Jesus,  but  in  the  truths  he 
brings.  The  truth  of  immortality,  the  faith 
in  an  endless  life,  is  described  as  a  power ; 
and  is  contrasted  with  the  external  laws  and 
regulations  of  the  world.  Immortality,  the  pas- 
sage says,  is  not  only  a  hope  or  a  philosophy ; 
it  is  a  dynamic.  It  is  not  only  a  truth  to  believe 
in,  but  a  power  to  use.  There  are  many  lives 
which  find  their  motives  in  the  external  and 
changeful  circumstances  of  the  world,  as 
sailing  vessels  are  governed  by  the  blowing 
of  the  wind  ;  there  are  some  lives  which  are 
moved  by  the  consciousness  of  immortality, 
as  steamships  are  propelled  by  their  own 
engines ;  and  these  lives  have  a  dynamic 
quality  about  them  because  they  are  con- 
trolled, not  by  an  outward  or  carnal  com- 
mandment, but  by  the  power  of  an  endless 
life. 

Such  is  the  contrast  of  this  passage  ;  and 
it  suggests  two  ways  in  which  the  feast  of 
216 


§>mtfjap  €toenmg;a  in  tfyt  ColUp  Chapel 

immortality,  which  the  Christian  Church  ob- 
serves on  Easter  Sunday,  may  be  kept.  One 
way  of  commemoration  is  through  a  recon- 
sideration of  the  fact  of  immortality,  a  weigh- 
ing of  the  evidence,  a  proof  of  the  endless 
life ;  the  other  way  is  through  the  utilization 
of  the  fact  of  immortality,  the  practical  ac- 
ceptance of  the  dynamic  of  the  endless  life. 
Many  a  sermon  is  being  preached  to-day  to 
demonstrate  immortality  as  a  fact;  many  a 
mind  is  reconsidering  the  possibility  of  the 
resurrection  of  Jesus  Christ ;  many  a  heart  is 
longing  to  know  the  truth  about  the  departed 
dead,  and  praying  on  this  Easter  Sunday: 
"  Oh,  that  I  might  be  sure  that  those  I  love 
are  near  me  in  their  endless  life."  These 
demonstrations  and  speculations  have  their 
legitimate  place  at  the  feast  of  immortality. 
Yet,  after  all,  this  is  but  a  preliminary  rela- 
tion of  the  mind  of  man  with  the  thought  of 
life  and  death.  It  is  very  interesting  to  con- 
sider whether  human  beings  can  be  immortal, 
and  what  shape  and  character  their  immor- 
tality may  bear ;  but  a  more  practical  problem 
is  to  consider  what  use  one  could  make  of 
immortality  if  he  had  it. 

This  is  the  problem  we  now  set  before  our 
217 


g>tm&ap  €toentnfffi  in  tlje  College  C&apel 

selves.  Let  us  turn  from  the  endless  life  as  a 
law,  and  think  of  it  as  a  power.  Let  us  take 
for  granted  that  the  evidence  about  immor- 
tality is  convincing ;  let  us  repeat  with  the 
Christian  Church  the  great  confession :  "  I 
believe  in  the  communion  of  saints  ;  I  believe 
in  the  life  everlasting  "  ;  and  then  let  us  go  on 
to  ask  what  difference  this  truth  makes  in  the 
conduct  of  life.  Suppose  that,  in  spite  of  much 
obscurity  and  ignorance,  one  should  practi- 
cally try  the  hypothesis  of  permanence ;  and 
instead  of  living  by  the  law  of  a  carnal  com- 
mandment should  propose  to  live  by  the 
power  of  an  endless  life  ;  then,  what  is  likely 
to  happen,  in  one's  thought,  in  one's  conduct, 
in  one's  affections  ?  What  does  immortality 
do  for  one  ?  What  power  does  it  communi- 
cate ?  What  dynamic  does  it  offer  ? 

It  is  as  though  one  had  been  speculating 
about  the  nature  of  that  wonderful  force 
which,  for  want  of  a  better  name,  we  call 
electricity.  He  has  seen  its  dazzling  effects, 
flickering  and  dancing  across  the  sky ;  he 
has  studied  its  action  and  penetrated  a  little 
way  into  its  secret.  Then  at  last  it  occurs 
to  him  that,  though  this  mysterious  power 
cannot  be  wholly  understood,  it  may  at  least 
218 


^unUap  ©tonungfi  in  tfre  College  C&apel 

be  utilized;  and  while  there  is  much  about 
it  which  he  does  not  comprehend,  he  pro- 
ceeds to  convert  it  into  light  and  heat  and 
motion,  and  to  live  from  day  to  day  by  the 
power  of  its  dynamic  life.  So,  for  to-day,  we 
undertake  no  ambitious  speculation  concern- 
ing the  nature  of  immortality,  but  consider 
simply  the  uses  of  immortality.  Instead  of 
crying  with  Job  :  "  If  a  man  die,  shall  he  live 
again  ? "  we  ask  the  more  elementary  ques- 
tion :  "  If  a  man  is  to  live  again,  how  shall 
he  live  now?"  What  is  the  difference  be- 
tween a  person  who  is  controlled  by  the  law 
of  a  carnal  commandment,  and  a  person  who 
is  stirred  by  the  power  of  an  endless  life  ? 
An  English  mystic  once  wrote  of  what  he 
called :  "  Practicing  the  presence  of  God." 
Why  should  we  not  in  the  same  way  prac- 
tice the  presence  of  immortality  ? 

First  of  all,  it  must  be  admitted  that  the 
dynamic  of  immortality  is  not  the  only  form  of 
force  on  which  spiritual  momentum  depends. 
It  is  sometimes  urged  that  if  we  are  not  im- 
mortal there  is  left  no  sufficient  motive  to 
make  us  good ;  that  if  death  ends  all,  then 
the  only  safe  rule  of  life  is  "  the  law  of  a  carnal 
commandment."  "What  advantageth  it  mc, 
219 


Smntoap  €toenin£fi  in  t&e  College  Cfjapel 

if  the  dead  rise  not  ? "  says  the  Apostle.  "  Let 
us  eat  and  drink ;  for  to-morrow  we  die." 
But  the  fact  is  that  even  if  this  little  life 
were  all,  it  would  still  be  better  to  be  wise 
than  to  be  foolish,  and  better  to  be  good 
than  to  be  bad.  One  great  motive  for  right - 
doing  would  indeed  be  lost,  but  motives 
enough,  thank  God,  would  still  remain  to 
keep  one  prudent  and  honest  and  give  one  a 
real,  even  if  not  a  perfect,  moral  law.  Fortu- 
nately for  us  all,  there  are  many  pillars  which 
support  the  righteous  life.  When  God  led 
forth  the  children  of  Israel  into  those  wan- 
derings in  which  our  religious  history  began, 
he  led  them  out  of  a  land  where  faith  in 
immortality  was  universally  conspicuous,  and 
they  left  behind  them  that  faith,  along  with 
other  temptations  of  the  land  of  bondage, 
so  that  for  centuries  the  righteousness  of 
Israel  was  maintained  without  the  power  of 
an  endless  life.  In  the  same  way  God  leads 
many  a  modern  wanderer  through  many  a 
wilderness  of  perplexity  or  doubt,  and  still 
holds  such  a  man  to  duty  even  though  he  may 
lose  his  hold  on  the  immortal  hope.  To  claim 
everything  for  immortality  as  a  motive  is 
simply  to  ignore  the  fact  that  many  a  brave 
220 


&tmtoap  (Btocninfffi  in  tbc  College  Cfcapel 

life  has  been  lived  without  it ;  and  that  is  to 
defeat  the  cause  which  one  desires  to  defend. 
Still  further,  it  must  be  admitted  that  the 
power  of  an  endless  life  may  be  applied  in 
ways  which  not  only  do  not  wisely  utilize  it, 
but  which  result  in  great  waste  of  force.  We 
are  told  that  in  electric  wires  and  conduits 
much  of  the  force  which  should  be  applied  to 
its  proper  work  leaks  away,  and  decomposes 
pipes  and  wires,  through  the  action  known  as 
"electrolysis."  There  is  a  similar  waste  of 
energy  in  the  spiritual  life,  a  sort  of  "  pneu- 
matolysis,"  which  diverts  the  dynamic  of  im- 
mortality from  usefulness  to  harm.  Suppose, 
for  instance,  that  one's  thought  about  the  fu- 
ture amounts  to  no  more  than  this,  —  that  he 
wants  to  be  spared  from  its  awful  penalties 
and  to  gain  its  perfect  bliss.  How  will  this 
motive  of  sheer  self-interest  be  likely  to 
work  ?  It  may  operate  to  make  a  man  even 
less  generous  and  heroic  than  many  a  man 
who  has  no  such  hope  or  fear.  He  is  com- 
puting consequences  rather  than  living  the 
abundant  and  uncalculating  life.  He  may  claim 
the  promises  of  Christ,  but  he  has  missed  the 
grace  of  Christ.  The  dynamic  of  immortality 
is  misdirected  and  dissipated.  Indeed,  so  far 

221 


&tmto?  evening;*  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

may  this  waste  of  power  go  that  it  may  even 
paralyze  the  spiritual  life,  as  when  the  electric 
power  runs  from  the  trolley  to  the  ground 
and  stops  the  traffic  or  endangers  the  passers- 
by.  Sometimes  a  person  believes  just  enough 
in  the  future  life  to  make  him  afraid  of  it, 
and  yet  not  enough  to  make  it  move  him. 
Most  of  the  time  he  lives  as  if  he  were  going 
to  die,  but  now  and  then  there  comes  over 
him  the  awful  suspicion  that  he  may  be  mak- 
ing a  dreadful  mistake  and  is  going  to  live ; 
and  then  he  tries  to  atone  for  habitual  world- 
liness  by  occasional  piety,  or  for  a  life  of  self- 
indulgence  by  a  death-bed  repentance.  Law- 
rence Oliphantonce  said  that  religious  people 
in  England  were  of  two  classes,  —  the  "  wholly 
worldly  "  and  the  "worldly  holy."  The  wholly 
worldly  are  those  who  have  lost  their  con- 
nection with  the  power  of  the  endless  life ;  and 
the  worldly  holy  have  run  that  power  into 
the  ground.  Thus  the  occasional  flicker  of 
immortality,  while  it  may  not  be  worse  than 
total  darkness,  is  often  more  confusing,  as  a 
lightning-flash  at  night  startles  and  blinds.  It 
reveals  no  clear  way  of  conduct.  If  one  were 
perfectly  sure  of  his  unbelief,  then  he  might 
surrender  himself  to  the  law  of  the  carnal 


&tm&ap  Cunnings  in  ii)t  College  Chapel 

commandment ;  or,  on  the  other  hand,  if  he 
were  perfectly  sure  of  his  belief,  he  might 
give  himself  to  the  power  of  an  endless  life  ; 
but  as  it  is,  he  swings  from  one  alternative  to 
the  other,  and  may  get  the  minimum  of  satis- 
faction and  the  maximum  of  discomposure. 
As  Browning's  Bishop  says  :  — 

"  All  we  've  gained  is,  that  belief, 
As  unbelief  before,  shakes  us  by  fits, 
Confounds  us  like  its  predecessor. 
What  have  we  gained  then  by  our  unbelief 
But  a  life  of  doubt  diversified  by  faith, 
For  one  of  faith  diversified  by  doubt. 
We  called  the  chess  board  white,  —  we  call  it  black." 

What  then  can  immortality  do  for  us? 
What  difference  does  it  really  make  that  we 
are  not  going  to  die  ?  Suppose  one  lives  by 
this  power,  taking  it,  as  the  naturalists  say,  as 
a  working  hypothesis,  how  will  it  affect  the 
conduct  of  life  ?  In  order  to  answer  this  ques- 
tion it  is  necessary  to  ask  another.  What  is 
it  that  our  lives  most  need  to  make  them  ra- 
tional, efficient,  and  wise?  Many  qualities  may, 
of  course,  contribute  to  steadiness,  stability, 
and  self-control;  but  a  reasonable  life  needs, 
most  of  all,  the  conviction  that  things  have  a 
meaning.  What  keeps  most  lives  unstable,  ir- 
rational, and  restless  is  that  they  seem  to  them- 
223 


JS>ttitfrap  (Ctoeninpi  in  t&e  College  Cfjapel 

selves  to  have  no  significance,  no  place,  no 
meaning  of  their  own.  One  looks  at  his  own 
experience,  its  insignificant  incidents,  its  frit- 
tered interests,  its  bitterly  hard  work  for  ridi- 
culously small  ends,  the  pettiness  of  its  am- 
bitions, its  great  hopes  and  meagre  achieve- 
ments, —  and  is  inclined  to  ask :  Of  what 
earthly  use  is  all  this  ?  What  is  it  but  the  tran- 
sient flight  of  an  insect  which  spreads  its  little 
wings  to  the  sun  and  is  crushed  that  very 
day  ?  "  What  is  your  life  ?  "  says  the  Apostle, 
and  one  repeats  after  him :  "  It  is  even  a 
vapor,  that  appeareth  for  a  little  time  and 
then  vanisheth  away."  If  this  is  your  life, 
—  a  moment  without  meaning,  an  accident,  a 
fragment,  a  morning  mist,  why  take  it  so 
seriously,  why  try  to  understand  it,  why  pre- 
tend that  it  has  worth?  Why  strive  and  agonize 
and  repine  as  though  the  universe  were  wait- 
ing for  your  cooperation  ?  Why  not  surrender 
yourself  to  passing  inclination,  and  slip  down 
into  the  abyss  of  oblivion,  like  a  wave  that 
leaps  up  for  a  moment,  bright  and  dancing  in 
the  sun,  and  then  sinks  back  into  the  deep 
again  as  though  it  had  never  been  ? 

Ah,  but  suppose  that  your  life  is  not  with- 
out a  meaning  ;  suppose  it  has  a  permanent 
224 


£>tm*ap  etoeninp  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

significance  in  the  order  of  the  world ;  sup- 
pose that,  like  each  member  in  an  organic 
life,  like  each  part  in  a  great  machine,  it 
has  its  own  place  and  purpose,  —  then  a  new 
demand  is  laid  upon  you,  and  a  new  motive 
is  yours.  Suppose  you  are  needed  in  the  uni- 
versal order  and  have  a  share,  —  infinitely 
small,  yet  infinitely  precious,  —  in  the  eternal 
process ;  then,  to  fail  is  to  retard  the  mighty 
purpose;  and  to  fulfil  your  part  is  to  con- 
tribute to  the  permanent.  What  is  this  that  is 
thus  redeeming  your  little  life  from  meaning- 
lessness  and  insignificance,  and  giving  it  sta- 
bility, patience,  and  peace  ?  It  is  the  dynamic 
of  the  endless  life.  Taken  by  itself  your  life 
is  indeed  but  a  fragment,  a  moment,  a  thread 
in  the  great  loom  of  time ;  but  taken  in  its  re- 
lation to  the  whole  of  God's  purpose  it  be- 
comes essential  and  significant ;  for  the  power 
of  the  endless  life  is  moving  through  that  loom 
and  every  thread  has  its  place  in  the  great 
creation,  and  each  thread  snapped  mars  the 
whole.  That  is  what  immortality  does  for  us. 
It  makes  life  large  and  significant,  instead  of 
small  and  accidental.  Each  day's  work  well 
done  counts  for  God ;  each  dropped  stitch 
mars  the  perfect  work.  The  fragmentariness 
225 


gmntiap  <£benm£S  in  t&e  College  Cljapei 

of  life  does  not  rob  it  of  meaning.  On  the 
contrary,  its  incompleteness  is  the  sign  of  its 
continuance.  The  segment  prophesies  the 
circle.  "  On  earth  the  broken  arc,  in  heaven 
the  perfect  round." 

The  life  of  Jesus  Christ  was  cut  off,  as 
we  say,  prematurely,  in  the  prime  of  open- 
ing manhood,  with  many  a  message  unde- 
livered and  many  a  task  undone.  Yet  Jesus 
finds  no  sense  of  prematureness  in  his  de- 
parture, or  of  incompleteness  in  his  work. 
"  It  is  finished,"  he  says.  "  It  is  expedient  for 
you  that  I  go  away."  "  I  have  accomplished 
that  which  was  given  me  to  do."  What  is  it 
that  gives  him  this  amazing  sense  of  tranquil- 
lity and  completeness  ?  It  is  the  dynamic  of 
the  endless  life.  He  sees  his  fragmentary  work 
taken  up  into  the  purposes  of  his  Father ;  he 
sees  the  spirit  of  the  truth  teach  his  disciples 
what  they  could  not  bear  to  receive  from  him; 
and,  seeing  all  this,  with  perfect  serenity  and 
faith  he  goes  his  way  into  the  mystery  of  the 
future,  and  his  farewell  to  his  friends  is  in  those 
words,  so  strange  for  one  thirty  years  old  to 
utter  as  he  is  snatched  away  from  all  that  seems 
waiting  for  him  to  do  :  "  My  peace  I  leave 
with  you."  "  I  go  to  prepare  a  place  for  you." 
226 


Smntoap  ©Renins*  in  t&e  College  Cbapel 

Such,  in  general  statement,  is  the  power 
of  the  endless  life.  It  gives  to  human  experi- 
ence a  meaning,  instead  of  leaving  it  a  frag- 
ment or  a  blunder  in  a  meaningless  world. 
But  the  same  power  may  be  traced  a  little 
further  in  its  operation.  The  power  of  the 
endless  life  is  not  exhausted  in  this  compre- 
hensive and  general  result.  It  has  specific 
ways  of  action.  It  has  its  effect,  first  on  our 
thoughts,  then  on  our  duties,  and  finally  on  our 
feelings.  It  makes  possible  thoughts  which 
have  length,  and  duties  which  have  breadth, 
and  feelings  which  have  depth  ;  and  thus  it  ex- 
pands life  in  all  possible  ways.  Let  us  look 
for  a  moment  at  these  specific  operations  of 
the  dynamic  of  immortality. 

What,  for  instance,  does  a  man  think  about 
if  he  is  sure  that  he  is  not  going  to  die?  Sidney 
Smith  once  said  that  what  one  needed  among 
the  uncertainties  of  this  world  was  "  short 
views,"  —  plans,  that  is  to  say,  which  do  not 
look  far  ahead ;  and  if  death  ends  all,  he  was 
right.  In  so  momentary  and  unstable  a  life 
as  this  world  offers  one  should  have  short 
views.  He  should  lay  his  plans  from  day  to 
day,  and  abandon  that  which  is  not  immedi- 
ately attainable  and  sure.  But  if,  on  the  other 
227 


i&tm&ap  (SEbentnpi  in  tyt  College  C&apel 

hand,  one  is  living  by  the  power  of  an  end- 
less life,  then  a  new  range  of  thought  opens 
before  the  mind.  One  may  have  long  views, 
and  plan  long  ventures  of  the  mind.  Large 
areas  of  thought  may  be  entered ;  for  there 
will  be  time  to  explore  them.  Thoughts  are 
justified  which  are  not  devoted  to  daily  bread, 
but  are  concerned  with  the  unseen  and  eter- 
nal. What,  indeed,  is  all  our  learning  but  pre- 
paratory, educative,  preliminary  ?  There  is  no 
conclusion  to  it  here.  In  it  all  we  are  begin- 
ners. Thought  which  has  length  gets  its 
momentum,  even  though  the  thinker  be  un- 
conscious of  it,  from  the  power  of  an  endless 
life. 

What,  again,  is  the  duty  of  a  man  who  is 
going  to  die  ?  It  is,  as  we  have  already  seen, 
a  real  duty.  But  it  is  a  duty  without  breadth, 
—  a  meagre,  stunted  ethics,  the  balancing  of 
rights  and  the  arrangements  of  expediency. 
How  can  a  vision  of  self-sacrifice  or  heroism 
be  revealed  to  one  whose  duty  is  bounded  by 
this  life  ?  To  suffer  for  one's  cause,  to  die,  like 
Jesus  of  Nazareth,  for  an  ideal,  in  the  bloom 
of  early  manhood,  is  simply  to  confess  one- 
self a  mistaken  enthusiast.  Such  a  person 
is  throwing  away  his  one  chance ;  he  has  over- 
228 


i&tmliap  6tocnmg;fi  in  tlit  College  C&apel 

stepped  all  reasonable  bounds  of  duty.  But 
if  one  is  not  going  to  die,  he  has  no  need  to 
adjust  himself  to  temporary  conditions.  He 
can  afford  to  be  misapprehended,  unappreci- 
ated, opposed.  His  duty  has  breadth.  It  is  not 
what  people  think  of  him  from  day  to  day 
which  counts ;  it  is  what  he  will  think  of 
himself  when  some  day  he  sees  the  total  issue 
of  his  moral  victories  or  defeats. 

The  same  dynamic  gives  depth  to  feeling. 
If  the  life  of  the  affections  be  really  bounded 
by  the  chances  of  this  world,  what  is  the  best 
rule  for  the  heart  ?  It  must  be  the  rule  of  super- 
ficial feeling.  How  can  you  give  yourself  unre- 
servedly to  your  friend,  your  wife,  your  child,  if, 
at  any  moment,  that  bond  is  to  be  snapped  for- 
ever and  your  heart  broken  ?  The  deeper  feel- 
ing goes,  the  more  certain  it  is  to  bring  with 
it  tragedy,  grief,  and  loss.  The  deeper  the  root, 
the  more  violent  the  uprooting.  It  is  folly 
under  such  conditions  to  permit  yourself  an 
unrestrained  affection,  to  set  your  heart,  as 
we  say,  on  anything.  The  only  wise  man  is  he 
who  forbids  his  feelings  to  have  depth,  who 
guards  himself  from  great  emotions,  and  runs 
no  risk  of  overwhelming  sorrow.  Ah,  but  this 
is  precisely  where  nature  confronts  one  with 
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gmttfrap  Cbcnmsa  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

her  prophecy  of  immortality.  You  cannot  deal 
thus  with  your  affections.  There  is  a  quality 
of  eternity  about  them.  The  reason  they  go  so 
deep  is  that  they  are  not  meant  to  die.  One 
who  has  committed  himself  wholly  to  them 
has  just  so  much  contact  with  eternity.  The 
whole  range  of  experience  which  we  call  love, 
friendship,  sympathy,  admiration,  —  experi- 
ences which  give  all  the  color  and  glow  to  hu- 
man life,  —  are  simply  baffling  and  uninter- 
pretable  unless  they  are  somehow  safe  from 
death.  The  very  essence  of  them  is  in  their 
depth ;  and  that  which  gives  them  depth  is 
the  power  of  their  endless  life. 

This  brings  us  to  the  final  consequence 
which  comes  from  practising  the  presence  of 
immortality.  For  the  practical  attempt  to  live 
by  the  power  of  the  endless  life  turns  out,  for 
most  people,  to  be  the  way  in  which  they  come 
to  believe  in  the  truth  of  the  endless  life.  Its 
use  as  a  dynamic  becomes  its  proof  as  a  fact. 
We  often  fancy  that  immortality  must  be 
proved  to  us  somehow,  by  philosophy  or  his- 
tory, before  we  can  believe  in  it.  But  what 
happens  much  oftener  is  that  we  are  permitted 
first  to  see  an  immortal  life,  and  then,  as  a 
consequence,  to  believe  in  it.  We  know  it  as 
230 


a  fact  because  we  have  felt  it  as  a  power.  In 
your  home,  in  your  memory,  in  the  person- 
ality of  Jesus  Christ,  you  have  come  into  re- 
lation with  lives  which  had  about  them  the 
quality  of  eternity.  It  may  be  difficult  to  pic- 
ture the  way  in  which  these  lives  continue  to 
live ;  but  it  is  much  harder  to  think  of  them 
as  ceasing  to  live.  They  had  a  quality  of  time- 
lessness  about  them.  Their  charm,  promise, 
purity,  and  graciousness  were  not  things  which 
one  can  associate  with  extinction.  "  What  is 
excellent,"  said  Emerson  of  his  own  child,  u  as 
God  lives,  is  permanent."  Contact  with  the 
endless  life  is  the  evidence  of  immortality. 
Heaven  has  seemed  to  many  a  life  like  home, 
because  home  has  seemed  like  heaven.  As  the 
reality  of  love  is  proved  by  loving,  so  the  re- 
ality of  life  is  proved  by  living.  Faith  in  the 
future  comes  of  experience  in  the  present. 
Faith  in  immortality  issues  from  the  love  of 
those  not  made  to  die. 

Who  are  the  real  doubters  about  the  end- 
less life  ?  They  are  the  self-indulgent,  the 
fleshly,  the  self-centred,  the  cynics,  who  have 
not  used  the  power  of  the  endless  life.  They 
cannot  believe  in  that  which  they  do  not  share. 
They  are  not  living  as  though  they  were  im- 

231 


S>unHaj>  dttoemtigfi  in  tl)e  College  C&apel 

mortal ;  and  so  the  truth  of  immortality  is  hid- 
den from  their  view.  And  who  are  they  to 
whom  the  evidence  of  the  endless  life  is  con- 
vincing ?  They  are  those  who  have  felt  the 
dynamic  of  the  endless  life.  Doing  the  will, 
they  know  the  doctrine.  Their  faith  is  the 
corollary  of  their  conduct.  Feeling  the  power, 
they  approach  the  fact.  Practising  the  pre- 
sence of  immortality,  they  can  wait  for  the  dis- 
closure of  immortality.  It  is  as  when  one  waits 
through  days  of  lingering  cold  for  the  slow 
coming  of  the  tardy  Spring  ;  impatiently  per- 
haps, because  eager  to  see  the  blossoms ; 
yet  not  faithlessly,  as  if  there  were  no  change 
to  come.  For  everywhere,  after  abundant 
rains,  the  power  of  the  endless  life  is  working 
to  draw  out  the  flowers  ;  and  everywhere, 
under  the  same  law,  after  abundant  tears,  the 
same  power  works  to  change  the  winter  of  the 
soul  into  a  fragrant  Spring. 


232 


XIV 

THE  CHRISTIAN  DOCTRINE  OF 
SOCIAL  SERVICE 

For  their  sakes  I  sanctify  myself.  —  John  xvir,  19. 

T  is  often  asked  in  our  day  whether 
Jesus  Christ  announced  a  definite  so- 
cial programme  ;  and  many  people  are 
eagerly  inquiring:  "How  would  Jesus  stand 
toward  the  grave  social  issues  of  the  present 
time  ?  Was  he  what  we  call  an  individualist, 
or  was  he  what  we  call  a  socialist  ?  What,  ac- 
cording to  him,  is  the  philosophy  of  human 
society  ?  How  shall  a  disciple  of  Christ  dis- 
cover his  Master's  social  doctrine  ?  Is  it  pos- 
sible to  adjust  the  principles  of  the  Christian 
gospel  to  the  tragic  needs  of  the  social  prob- 
lem of  to-day  ?  " 

The  answers  to  these  questions  are  as  varied 
as  they  are  confident.  On  the  one  hand  is  the 
undisturbed  believer  in  the  personal  message 
of  Christ,  content  to  hear  that  great  word  of 
Jesus,  the  individualist  :  "  What  shall  it  profit 

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StmUap  (Kbenmfffi!  in  t&e  Collie  C&apel 

a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole  world  and  lose  his 
own  soul  ? "  On  the  other  hand,  is  the  pas- 
sionate reformer,  dreaming  of  a  revolutionized 
world  of  social  responsibility,  and  recalling 
that  other  great  word  :  "  He  saved  others,  him- 
self he  cannot  save."  Sanguine  disciples  pro- 
pose to  convert  the  cruelties  of  modern  trade 
to  the  fraternalism  of  Christ ;  indignant  agi- 
tators find  in  all  religion  a  waste  of  energy 
and  of  capital,  and,  as  one  such  man  has  lately 
said,  "  hate  the  very  shadow  which  the  spire 
of  the  village  church  casts  upon  the  green." 

What  a  change  of  atmosphere  is  felt  when 
one  turns  from  these  eager,  conflicting,  bitter, 
modern  voices,  to  the  great,  comprehensive 
affirmations  of  Jesus  Christ  himself !  He  does 
not  argue  or  dispute  concerning  either  the 
life  of  God  or  the  life  of  man.  He  comes  to 
reveal  the  Fatherhood  of  God ;  but  in  all  his 
teaching  there  is  no  formal  proof  of  such  a 
doctrine.  He  simply  goes  his  own  great  way 
through  life,  assuming  this  relationship  with 
the  Father  ;  and,  precisely  as  any  man,  in  his 
habitual  and  unconstrained  conversation,  dis- 
closes the  inclination  of  his  mind,  so  the  prayer 
of  Jesus,  "  Our  Father,"  and  the  parable  of 
Jesus,  "  The  father  had  compassion  on  him," 
234 


gjuntoap  (Ctjeninfffi  in  t(je  College  Cfcapel 

and  the  incidental  saying  of  Jesus,  "My  Father 
worketh  hitherto  and  I  work,"  disclose  with 
perfect  naturalness  the  habitual  attitude  of 
his  will.  In  the  same  way  Jesus  Christ  is  not 
a  system-maker  concerning  the  relations  of 
human  society.  He  does  not  come  with  a  pro- 
gramme or  panacea  or  mechanical  device.  The 
men  of  his  time  tried  to  claim  him  for  such 
dogmatic  utterances,  as  men  of  our  time  are 
trying  to  claim  him.  "  Master,"  said  a  legacy- 
tax  reformer  to  him,  "  speak  to  my  brother 
that  he  divide  the  inheritance  with  me"  ;  and 
Jesus  answers,  "  Man,  who  made  me  a  judge 
or  a  divider  over  you  ? "  "  Is  it  lawful  to  pay 
tribute  to  Caesar  ?  "  asked  those  who  would 
claim  him  as  a  political  revolutionist ;  but 
he  refuses  to  be  entangled  by  their  talk 
and  answers,  "Your  duty  to  Caesar  will  be 
plain  if  you  discern  your  duty  to  God." 

Yet,  out  of  such  a  mind,  in  habitual  com- 
munion with  eternal  truths,  there  is  sure  to 
proceed  a  principle  of  human  conduct  in  rela- 
tion to  society  as  unmistakable  as  the  principle 
of  Fatherhood  in  the  idea  of  God.  The  great 
conceptions  which  the  modern  world  is  labori- 
ously formulating,  —  the  social  organism,  the 
brotherhood  of  man,  the  interdependence  of 

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i&mn&ap  Ctoninjrs  in  t&e  College  C&apcl 

the  weak  and  strong,  — these  are  not  dogmas 
wrought  out  by  Jesus  into  a  system ;  they 
are  simply  the  elementary  assumptions  out 
of  which  his  conversation  and  conduct  hab- 
itually spring.  When  on  some  sultry  day  a 
fresh  afternoon  breeze  sweeps  over  some  suf- 
fering city,  and  pallid  faces  brighten,  and  the 
pillows  of  the  sick  grow  cool,  and  the  work  of 
the  world  lies  easier  on  its  shoulders,  —  that 
is  not  an  achievement  of  a  system-maker,  as 
though  it  were  devised  by  some  judicious 
weather-bureau,  supervising  all ;  it  is  simply 
the  movement  of  the  compassionate  life  of 
God  across  the  weary  life  of  man,  reviving  the 
capacity  to  live  and  to  hope.  So  sweeps  the 
breeze  of  the  teaching  of  Jesus  over  the  weari- 
ness and  hopelessness  of  the  world,  not  to 
systematize  its  life,  but  to  revive  its  life ;  not 
to  originate  a  doctrinal  system,  but  to  restore 
a  vital  system  ;  and  many  a  perplexing  prob- 
lem and  enfeebling  disease  of  the  modern 
social  world  is  swept  clean  away  by  the  tonic 
visitation  of  this  new  ideal. 

Was  Jesus  an  individualist  ?  Oh,  yes !  There 

never  was  a  more  absolute  emphasis  laid  on  the 

imperishable  and  incalculable  value  of  each 

human  soul.  The  worth  of  the  individual,  man 

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Smntoap  (fctoemnas  in  t&e  College  Cfcapel 

or  woman,  free  or  slave,  saint  or  sinner,  gained 
a  wholly  new  estimate  in  the  light  of  the  Chris- 
tian gospel.  The  shepherd  goes  out  after  the 
one  sheep  ;  the  woman  sweeps  the  house  for 
the  one  piece  of  money ;  the  first  gift  of  Chris- 
tianity, to  a  world  where  the  mass  of  human 
beings  were  the  mere  instrument  of  gain  or 
pleasure  for  the  few,  was  the  appreciation  of 
the  unsuspected  significance  of  each  humble 
human  soul.  The  method  of  Jesus  was  indi- 
vidualized. He  saves  men  one  at  a  time.  His 
way  of  help  was  personal.  "  I  am  the  way." 
"Come  unto  me." 

Shall  we  say,  then,  that  Jesus  was  not  a  so- 
cialist ?  Oh,  no  !  It  is  impossible  to  study  his 
gospel  without  perceiving  that  throughout  his 
ministry  there  hovered  before  his  mind  the 
dream  of  a  perfected  and  united  human  so- 
ciety, in  which  the  brotherhood  of  man  was 
at  last  to  be  fulfilled.  He  called  this  social 
ideal  the  kingdom  of  God.  It  was  the  one 
thing  to  be  desired.  It  was  the  hid  treasure 
for  which  men  were  to  dig ;  it  was  the  pearl 
of  price  for  which  all  else  was  to  be  sold. 
Each  Christian  prays  for  this  coming  of  social 
peace  and  justice  when  he  prays,  "  Thy  king- 
dom  come."    No  modern  agitator,  dreaming 

237 


&tmtiai>  ©tjeninfffi  in  \\>t  College  C&apel 

of  a  time  when  all  men  shall  live  for  the  good 
of  all,  was  ever  more  audacious  or  extrava* 
gant  or  Quixotic  in  his  hope  than  this  vision- 
ary Jesus,  with  his  unconquerable  expectation 
of  an  earthly  kingdom  of  a  living  God. 

What,  then,  we  ask  ourselves,  becomes  of 
any  consistent  philosophy  of  society  ?  Is  Jesus 
now  individualist  and  now  socialist  ?  Is  Christ 
divided?  Are  his  disciples  left  among  para- 
doxes and  contradictions  ?  On  the  contrary, 
in  this  twofold  teaching  of  the  individual  and 
the  social  order  lies  the  very  essence  of  the 
Christian  doctrine  of  society.  Why  is  it  that 
the  individual  is  so  absolutely  precious  ?  For 
its  own  sake  ?  Oh,  no !  Taken  by  itself  a  hu- 
man life  cannot  be  regarded  as  a  very  impor- 
tant thing.  It  is,  at  the  best,  but  a  momentary, 
fragmentary  incident,  a  wave  that  leaps  up 
for  an  instant  into  the  light  and  then  sinks 
back  into  the  oblivion  of  a  universal  sea.  But 
suppose  that  in  the  economy  of  God  each 
glancing  wave  counts  in  the  great  tidal  move- 
ment which  refreshes  the  world ;  suppose  each 
individual  life  is  needed  for  the  kingdom,  and 
the  kingdom  comes  through  individual  lives  ; 
suppose  each  member  of  the  body  has  its  part 
in  the  health  of  the  whole,  and  the  whole  is  en- 
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gmnUap  (Etoenmp  in  ifoe  College  C&apel 

feebled  if  any  part  be  weak,  —  then  the  para- 
dox of  part  and  whole,  of  soul  and  kingdom,  of 
ocean  and  wave,  opens  into  a  larger  truth,  and 
the  philosophy  of  the  individualist  and  the 
socialist  are  at  one.  The  single  life  finds  its 
significance  in  the  service  of  the  whole,  and 
the  whole  finds  its  security  in  the  integrity  of 
each  single  life. 

With  perfect  completeness  and  with  ex- 
quisite humility  Jesus  sums  up  his  doctrine : 
"For their  sakes,"  he  says,  "I  sanctify  my- 
self." For  their  sakes,  —  that  is  the  end,  the 
common  good,  the  social  welfare.  I  sanctify 
myself,  —  that  is  the  starting-point  of  re- 
demption. The  beginning  is  individual,  the 
aim  is  social.  The  way  to  make  a  good  world 
is,  first  of  all,  to  be  good  oneself.  First 
character,  then  charity  ;  first  life,  then  love ; 
—  that  was  the  way  of  Jesus  Christ.  He 
does  not  stand  in  history  as  the  great  or- 
ganizer or  reformer  of  the  social  world.  He 
stands  primarily  as  the  witness  of  the  capacity 
for  social  service  offered  to  each  human  soul. 
The  kingdom  of  God,  which  is  the  end  of  en- 
deavor, is  to  come  through  the  personal  sanc- 
tification  of  individuals  for  others'  sakes.  The 
Christian  paradox  is  the  paradox  of  the  solar 

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gmntap  ©benmfffl  in  tfce  Collie  C&apel 

system.  An  isolated  soul,  like  an  isolated 
planet,  means  instability  and  chaos.  The  sta- 
bility of  each  part  is  found  in  its  steady  orbit 
round  the  larger  centre,  and  the  integrity  of 
the  whole  vast  order  hangs  on  the  adjustment 
of  each  single  part.  That  is  what  is  known  in 
the  world  of  nature  as  the  law  of  attraction, 
and  what  Jesus  calls  in  the  spiritual  world  the 
kingdom  of  God. 

Let  us  apply  this  two-fold  teaching  of  the 
Gospel  to  the  problems  of  social  service 
which  so  imperatively  invite  the  intelligent 
co-operation  of  educated  young  men.  Each 
year  a  group  of  our  students,  numbering  sev- 
eral hundreds,  find  themselves  drawn,  both  by 
the  call  of  their  own  natures  and  by  the  ap- 
pealing circumstances  of  the  time,  to  varied 
forms  of  generous  and  happy  service ;  and 
it  is  well  to  consider  what  such  participa- 
tion means.  What  is  its  relation  to  the  re- 
ligious life  ?  What  is  the  teaching  of  Jesus 
Christ  concerning  its  method  and  result? 
What  is  the  Christian  doctrine  of  social  ser- 
vice ? 

"For  their  sakes,"  — that  is  the  aim  of  all 
social  duty.    In  its   intention  it  is   nothing 
else  than  the  expression  of  a  personal,  indi- 
240 


^trntjap  <£tocninffGi  m  tlje  College  C&apel 

vidualised,  human  love.  No  machinery  can  of 
itself  express  this  relationship.  All  machinery 
must  be  moved  by  the  dynamic  of  compassion 
or  sympathy  or  good-will.  How  quickly  one 
detects  any  form  of  pretended  philanthropy 
which  is  not  inspired  by  this  human  relation 
and  does  not  act  as  though  it  heard  again  the 
command  :  "  For  their  sakes  "  !  How  quickly 
social  service,  thus  uninspired,  becomes  me- 
chanical, commercial,  official  !  A  human  soul 
shrivels  up  into  what  we  call  a  "case,"  and 
the  mechanism  of  relief  grows  so  stiff  and 
wooden  as  to  be  fitly  called  a  "  Bureau."  So- 
cial work,  with  its  visiting  and  its  committees, 
comes  to  bear  the  taint  of  social  ambition 
or  pious  self-scrutiny,  or  kindly  patronage. 
Legislation  and  organization  are  set  to  do  the 
work  which  demands,  first  of  all,  the  motive- 
power  of  intelligent  love.  The  primary  source 
of  power  in  social  work  is  so  unmechanical 
and  spiritual,  that  it  may  be  quite  obscured 
by  elaboration  of  method  and  multiplicity  of 
details.  It  is  to  be  found  in  the  sharing  of 
life  with  life,  the  contagion  of  personality,  — 
which  is  as  real  as  the  contagion  of  disease, 
—  in  the  glad  desire  to  live  for  others'  sakes, 
and  the  happiness  and  refreshment  of  such 
241 


gmntiap  ©betiinffg  in  t^c  College  C&apel 

service.  Many  a  philanthropic  scheme  has 
come  to  wreck,  like  a  steamer  in  a  storm,  be- 
cause it  had  not  enough  motive-power  within 
itself  to  carry  it  past  the  rocks  of  its  own 
method  ;  and  many  a  half-equipped  plan  has 
come  through  in  safety,  because  it  was  driven 
by  this  interior  power  of  unselfish  desire. 
"  For  their  sakes,"  commands  the  Master,  as 
he  sends  his  disciples  forth  upon  the  ocean  of 
endeavor,  and  with  this  dynamic  of  unselfish- 
ness they  steer  bravely  out  through  untried 
methods  to  unvisited  ports. 

Yet,  after  all,  this  aim  of  social  service 
does  not  express  the  whole  of  the  Christian 
doctrine.  It  is  true  that  the  springs  of  phil- 
anthropy are  in  self -forgetting  love,  but  it  is  by 
no  means  true  that  such  philanthropy  is  always 
discreet,  or  just,  or  effective,  or  even  wel- 
come. On  the  contrary,  among  the  most  un- 
just and  demoralizing  influences  of  modern 
civilization  is  that  of  unreflecting  and  ill-di- 
rected kind-heartedness.  This  truth  seems 
hard  to  learn.  To  persons  unaware  of  the 
complexity  of  modern  life,  rational  philan- 
thropy seems  to  exclude  human  compassion. 
Scientific  charity  is  described  as  the  charity 
"  which  Paul  forgot,"  though  it  happened  to 
242 


i&tmUap  (£to?ning;fi  in  tfyt  College  C&apel 

be  Paul  himself  who  besought  men  by  the 
mercies  of  God  to  present  a  reasonable  — 
that  is,  a  rational,  reflecting,  and  well-consid- 
ered—  service.  Among  thoughtful  people, 
however,  it  has  become  evident  that  to  be  of 
help  to  others  one  must  be  personally  pre- 
pared. The  administration  of  relief  was  once 
the  vocation  of  unsuccessful  ministers,  or  the 
resource  of  political  underlings  ;  now  the  ad- 
ministration of  relief  is  a  distinct  profession, 
with  its  own  department  of  learning,  and  its 
new  demands  for  leadership.  A  generation 
ago  the  universities  of  this  country  had  no 
sympathetic  contact  with  the  problems  of 
modern  society  ;  now  the  universities  are  pro- 
viding this  new  profession  with  men  and 
women  liberally  trained  for  social  service.  In 
short,  we  have  come  to  the  point  where  effi- 
ciency presupposes  education,  and  where  sen- 
timent must  be  directed  by  science,  or  fail  of 
its  own  desire. 

As  one  recalls  this  aspect  of  social  ser- 
vice, there  meets  him  the  other  half  of  the 
great  saying  of  Jesus.  "  For  their  sakes,"  — 
that  was  his  mission,  the  sheer  self-forgetting 
generosity  of  sacrifice.  But  what  does  he  do 
for  their  sakes?  First  of  all,  he  sanctifies 
243 


&mrtrap  <£bemng;0  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

himself.  He  commits  his  own  life  to  the  dis- 
cipline, patience,  and  instruction  of  God  ;  and 
then  he  is  prepared  to  seek  and  save  those 
that  are  lost.  Nothing  [is  more  wonderful  in 
the  career  of  Jesus  Christ  than  his  capacity 
to  wait  until  he  was  ready,  —  until,  as  he 
says,  his  hour  is  come.  At  twelve  years  old 
he  is  aware  that  he  must  be  about  his 
Father's  business ;  but  he  does  not  enter  on 
that  business  until  he  is  thirty.  In  the  mean 
time  he  sanctifies  himself ;  and  then,  out  of 
the  resources  of  a  disciplined  personality, 
flows  forth  the  new  full  stream  of  blessing. 
That  is  the  history  of  all  social  movements 
which  are  continuous  and  enlarging.  They 
proceed  from  persons  who  have  sanctified 
themselves.  The  great  epochs  of  philan- 
thropy, like  those  of  religion,  have  been 
created,  not  by  the  discovery  of  some  new 
device  or  scheme,  but  by  the  appearance  of 
persons  endowed  with  enlightenment,  origi- 
nality, and  devotion.  A  modern  institution  of 
charity  testifies,  even  to  a  casual  visitor,  of 
the  personal  quality  behind  its  rules.  Its  ma- 
chinery is  the  instrument  of  personal  force. 
Its  management  expresses  its  directing  life, 
as  a  building  expresses  the  architect's  design. 
244 


§>unUap  <£toenma;fi  in  tlje  College  Cfrapel 

Theologians  used  to  describe  what  they  called 
a  scheme  of  salvation  ;  but  in  sociology  there 
is  no  scheme  which  is  in  itself  a  saving  power. 
The  agents  of  social  salvation  are  saviours; 
the  natural  channel  of  salvation  is  a  per- 
son ;  and  the  only  person  who  can  save  is  the 
person  who  has  antecedently  sanctified  him- 
self. 

There  is  another  aspect  of  this  personal 
preparedness  which  comforts  many  persons 
in  the  course  of  their  efforts  to  help.  It  is  the 
discovery  that  personal  experience  is  one  way 
to  get  social  efficiency.  No  incident  in  philan- 
thropy is  more  disheartening  than  to  find 
one's  generous  desires  failing  to  reach  where 
they  were  meant  to  go.  A  young  man  throws 
himself  into  the  charities  of  the  time,  a  young 
woman  surrenders  her  careless  leisure  for  so- 
cial service,  and  one  day  these  young  enthu- 
siasts discover  that  they  are  not  establishing 
any  real  contact  with  the  lives  which  they 
want  to  help.  They  find  themselves  remote, 
or  repelled,  or  ineffective,  and,  in  spite  of  all 
the  books  they  have  been  reading  about  help- 
ing the  poor,  and  in  spite  of  all  the  generous 
impulses  through  which  God  has  been  calling 
them,  the  chasm    between   themselves  and 

245 


gmitfrap  €beninpi  in  t&e  College  Cfwpel 

other  lives  remains  unbridged.  What  is  the 
matter  with  these  generous  souls  ?  The  mat- 
ter is  that  they  themselves  have  not  had  the 
experience  which  they  are  trying  to  interpret. 
They  are  discovering  that  to  be  of  much  help 
to  others  one  must  have  had  something  of 
the  same  discipline  or  trouble  himself.  Not 
every  one  who  wants  to  be  of  use  to  others 
can  be  of  use.  The  interpretative  power 
over  another  life  is  given  only  to  one  who 
has  some  kinship  of  experience  himself.  You 
go  to  a  friend  in  trouble  and  try  to  be  kind, 
but  you  speak  as  to  the  deaf ;  and  then  there 
comes  into  that  silence  some  other  life  which 
has  been  through  the  same  sort  of  conflict 
and  has  issued  into  some  sort  of  peace,  and 
the  troubled  heart  hears  its  own  language, 
and  is  comforted  as  by  its  native  tongue  in  a 
strange  land.  So  it  is  with  the  problems  of 
social  service.  They  are  not  to  be  solved  by 
sheer  kindliness  of  heart.  They  demand  ante- 
cedent discipline.  What  a  great  word  is  that 
of  Jesus,  "If  any  man  will  come  after  me  let 
him,  first  of  all,  take  up  his  own  cross  and 
follow."  It  is  only  the  bearers  of  their  own 
crosses  who  are  able  to  be  the  saviours  of  other 
souls.  The  cross  of  Jesus  Christ  is  not  the 
246 


&ttnDap  £toenmg0  in  tfoe  Collie  Chapel 

symbol  of  his  suffering  only :  it  is  the  symbol 
of  his  power  to  save. 

Thus  the  principle  of  sanctifying  oneself 
for  others'  sakes  goes  much  deeper  than  mere 
education  in  learning  or  in  skill.  It  compre- 
hends all  the  deeper  experiences  of  one's  life, 
far  removed  as  they  may  seem  from  any 
relation  with  one's  social  service.  It  may  be 
that  for  the  sake  of  this  service  these  personal 
experiences  of  pain  or  loss  have  been  forced 
upon  one  by  the  unappreciated  goodness  of 
God.  It  may  be  that  the  first  step  in  capacity 
for  doing  good  lies  in  discipline  in  being  good. 
One  rouses  himself  from  his  own  private  trouble 
and  goes  out  to  help  others,  and  perhaps  the 
best  gift  he  carries  is  the  brave  bearing  of  his 
own  cross.  He  puts  off  his  own  disappoint- 
ment and  puts  on  the  garment  of  cheerfulness ; 
and,  as  he  goes  his  way  of  service,  the  very 
quality  of  his  counsel  may  reveal  the  depth  of 
his  experience,  and  the  courage  which  he 
communicates  be  the  courage  which  he  has 
won.  What  you  can  do  is  measured  by  what 
you  are.  Your  experience  is  transformed  into 
efficiency.  Your  personal  discipline  has  its 
fruit  in  social  wisdom.  For  others'  sakes  you 
have  sanctified  yourself. 

247 


gmnfcap  ©toeninss  in  t&e  College  Cfcapel 

To  what  then,  finally,  are  we  led  by  this 
Christian  doctrine  of  social  service  ?  We  are 
led  to  this  :  that  the  world  which  one  would 
serve  is  one  world,  —  a  common  life  of  pros- 
perity and  poverty,  of  inward  experience  and 
outward  relief,  of  sanctifying  oneself  and  of 
service  of  others,  —  one  world,  to  be  inter- 
preted and  saved  as  an  organic  whole.  The 
first  attitude  which  one  may  assume  toward 
social  service  is  that  the  only  world  worth 
considering  is  that  which  is  bounded  by  one- 
self. My  problem  in  life  is  to  help  myself.  My 
success  is  in  advancing  myself.  My  motto 
is  the  motto  of  Cain,  "Am  I  my  brother's 
keeper?"  The  second  possible  view  is  that 
there  are  two  worlds,  —  my  own  world  and 
the  world  of  others ;  and  I  venture  at  times 
across  the  border  of  the  one  and  into  the 
foreign  region  of  the  other  with  my  curi- 
osity, my  pity,  or  my  patronage.  The  third 
possible  conclusion  is  that  the  world  of  the 
social  order  is  one  world  ;  that  there  is  no  liv- 
ing or  dying  to  oneself ;  that  the  discipline 
of  each  life  counts  in  the  welfare  of  all ;  that 
one  cannot  discriminate  between  the  life 
that  is  offered  for  others'  sakes  and  the 
life  that  is  sanctifying  itself,  the  doing  good 
248 


g>tmtoap  (KtoentriffB  in  tbc  College  C&apel 

and  the  being  good.  "  We  cannot  do  anything 
for  the  poor;  we  can  only  do  things  with 
them,"  said  Miss  Addams  of  Hull  House,  and 
what  is  that  golden  saying  but  a  restatement 
of  the  teaching  of  Paul,  that  we  are  members 
one  of  another,  and  that  no  member  can  say 
to  another,  "  I  have  no  need  of  thee." 

This  recognition  of  the  comprehensive  unity 
of  the  social  world  restores  to  any  one  con- 
cerned with  social  service  his  patience  and 
his  hope.  He  does  not  expect  to  redeem  so 
great  a  world  all  at  once.  It  is  a  vast  and 
complex  organism,  whose  perfect  redemption 
is  not  to  come  until  each  part  is  redeemed. 
One  gives  up  looking  for  short-cuts  to  the  mil- 
lennium. One  does  not  separate  the  problem 
of  helping  the  poor  from  the  problem  of  Chris- 
tianizing the  rich.  One  does  not  expect  the 
poor  to  be  thrifty,  pure,  and  temperate,  while 
the  more  favored  classes  are  ostentatious  and 
self-indulgent.  It  is  one  world,  and  it  must  be 
viewed  with  patience.  "  For  their  sakes  "  one 
must  be  willing  to  go  slow.  But  the  same  un- 
ity of  the  world  is  the  justification  of  one's 
hope.  Each  good  stroke  anywhere  counts  for 
the  whole.  Each  life  redeemed  becomes  a  re- 
deemer. Each  life  sanctified  is  sanctified  for 
249 


gmnUap  ©toenmffis  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

others'  sakes.  Each  step  in  personal  discipline 
is  a  step  toward  social  service.  Each  private 
burden  borne  makes  one  stronger  to  bear  the 
burden  of  the  world.  Your  character  and  your 
charity  are  not  two  problems,  but  one. 

Here,  for  each  faithful  servant  of  the  com- 
mon good,  is  the  ground  for  a  rational  courage. 
It  is  not  the  measurable  quantity  of  achieve- 
ment which  satisfies.  On  the  contrary,  the  vis- 
ible results  of  one's  service  may  seem  to  justify 
despondency  or  despair.  The  basis  of  one's  con- 
fidence is  in  the  unity  of  the  world,  in  which 
not  an  atom  fails  of  force,  and  not  an  effort 
of  the  will  is  in  vain.  The  greatness  of  that 
law  redeems  the  insignificance  of  each  humble 
service  ;  each  wise  design  or  generous  impulse 
counts  for  the  good  of  the  whole.  In  the  won- 
derful system  of  the  telephone  the  whole  com- 
plex communication  depends  at  each  point  on 
the  little  film  of  metal  which  we  call  a  trans- 
mitter. Take  that  little  disk  out  of  the  me- 
chanism, and  it  becomes  insignificant  and  pur- 
poseless; but  set  the  transmitter  where  it 
belongs,  in  the  wonderful  mechanism  of  the 
greater  system,  and  each  word  that  is  spoken 
into  it  is  repeated  miles  and  miles  away.  So 
stands  the  individual  in  the  vast  system  of  the 
250 


Smntoap  Cnnunfffi  in  tfje  College  C&apel 

providence  of  God.  He  is  a  transmitter.  Taken 
by  himself,  what  can  be  more  insignificant 
than  he?  Yet,  at  each  point  the  whole  system 
depends  on  the  transmissive  power  of  the  in- 
dividual life.  It  takes  its  place  in  the  great 
order,  saying  to  itself,  "For  their  sakes  I 
sanctify  myself  " ;  and  then,  by  the  miracle  of 
the  Divine  method,  each  vibration  of  the  in- 
significant but  sanctified  life  reaches  the  needs 
which  are  waiting  for  its  message  far  away. 


*5* 


XV 
THE   SIGNS   OF   THE  TIMFS 

The  Pharisees  also  with  the  Sadducees  came,  and  tempt- 
ing desired  him  that  he  would  show  them  a  sign  from  hea- 
ven. He  answered  and  said  unto  them,  When  it  is  evening, 
ye  say,  It  will  be  fair  weather :  for  the  sky  is  red.  And  in  the 
morning,  It  will  be  foul  weather  to-day  :  for  the  sky  is  red 
and  lowering.  O  ye  hypocrites,  ye  can  discern  the  face  of  the 
sky,  but  can  ye  not  discern  the  signs  of  the  times  ?  —  Matt. 
xvi,  1-3. 

must  have  been  surprising  to  the 
Pharisees  to  be  told  that  they  could 
not  discern  the  signs  of  their  own 
times,  for  they  were  precisely  the  people  who 
had  most  carefully  adjusted  themselves  to 
the  time  in  which  they  lived.  It  was  a  time 
of  traditional  religion,  and  they  were  the  tra- 
ditionalists ;  it  was  a  time  of  formalism,  and 
they  were  the  formalists  :  and  now  into  their 
comfortable  conformity  comes  this  defiant  agi- 
tator, announcing  that  they  did  not  discern 
the  real  signs  of  the  times.  They  saw  the 
superficial  traits  of  their  age,  as  they  saw  the 
signs  of  to-morrow's  weather  in  the  evening 
252 


SmnUap  (KtieninffB  in  t^e  College  C&apel 

sky ;  but  he  was  interpreting  the  deeper  life 
of  the  age,  as  one  who  foretells  a  storm  of 
which  the  sky  gives  as  yet  no  sign.  They 
were  time-servers,  he  was  a  time-discerner. 
How  preposterous  all  this  must  have  seemed 
to  them  as  Jesus  went  his  way  to  disaster  and 
death,  and  they  were  left  still  in  control  of  the 
Church  and  the  State !  How  manifest  it  was 
that  they  understood  their  time  and  that  he 
had  misread  its  signs  !  And  yet,  looking  back 
on  that  conflict  of  spiritual  faith  with  formal 
religion,  we  see  the  signs  of  the  times  all 
pointing  directly  to  the  ministry  of  Jesus 
Christ.  The  world  was  ready  for  him,  —  weary 
of  its  formalism  and  hungry  for  the  bread  of 
life.  Books  have  even  been  written  in  our  day 
to  depreciate  the  originality  of  the  work  of 
Jesus  Christ,  because  the  times  themselves 
demanded  just  such  a  teacher.  The  fulness 
of  time  was  come.  The  age  and  the  person 
met,  the  age  with  its  desire  and  the  person 
with  his  message.  Then  at  last  the  cry  of  the 
time  was  answered,  and  the  Pharisees,  who 
thought  they  understood  their  age,  dwindled 
into  insignificance,  and  Jesus  remained  the 
interpreter  and  discerner  of  the  deeper  signs 
of  his  time. 

253 


&wtfrap  Ctoenmga  in  tlje  College  Cjjapel 

There  is  something  of  this  same  story  to 
tell  of  any  age  in  which  it  is  one's  lot  to  live. 
There  is  always  a  superficial  aspect  of  one's 
time,  with  its  signs  of  folly  and  formalism,  of 
trivial  interests  and  feeble  philosophy,  like 
the  froth  and  scum  and  eddies  on  the  sur- 
face of  a  stream ;  and  then,  there  is  in  every 
age  a  deeper  movement  of  interior  life,  like 
the  still,  strong  sweep  of  a  river  beneath  its 
whirling  eddies  —  the  tendencies  and  lessons, 
the  experiences  and  ideals,  through  which 
God  is  guiding  the  age  to  its  ultimate  issues, 
as  river-banks  direct  a  stream  to  the  waiting 
sea.  Thus  in  every  age  there  are  time-servers 
and  time-discerners.  First,  there  are  those 
who  think  they  understand  their  time  because 
they  see  the  scum  upon  its  surface.  They 
watch  the  eddies  and  infer  the  current  of  the 
stream.  They  read  the  time  as  they  read  the 
weather,  from  day  to  day,  as  though  there  were 
no  greater  movements  of  the  seasons  and  the 
moon.  They  live  their  easy  Pharisaic  life  and 
watch  the  spiritual  ideals  of  the  time  go  to 
their  cross.  And  then  in  every  age  there  are 
the  time-discerners,  the  people  who  dare  to 
have  faith  in  their  time,  the  disclosers,  even 
to  an  age  which  does  not  believe  in  itself,  of 
254 


§»tmtoap  (Ktjeninffg  in  tlje  College  C^apei 

its  own  inner  capabilities  and  needs.  How  im- 
practicable and  untimely  their  message  seems 
to  the  Pharisees !  How  unreasonable  is  this 
confidence  in  spiritual  responsiveness  in  an 
obviously  unspiritual  age !  Yet,  this  is  pro- 
gress, this  is  history,  this  is  religion,  this  is 
the  renewal  from  age  to  age  of  the  method  of 
Jesus  Christ.  It  was  not  a  method  of  invasion, 
as  though  he  were  introducing  spiritual  life 
into  a  foreign  and  hostile  world;  it  was  a 
method  of  discernment.  The  insight  of  Jesus 
recognized  in  his  own  time  the  signs  which 
made  him  perfectly  sure  that  the  heart  of 
the  world  would  respond  at  last  to  his  spiritual 
message,  and  that  the  age  which  looked  so 
empty  was  the  moment  when  the  fulness  of 
time  had  come. 

No  question  bears  so  directly  on  a  man's 
career  as  this  question  of  the  real  and  sub- 
stantial signs  of  the  times  in  which  he  lives. 
Many  a  man  fails  in  his  desire,  not  because 
he  has  no  truth  to  offer,  but  because  it  is  un- 
timely truth.  Sometimes  it  is  belated  truth, 
ineffective  because  outgrown.  Sometimes  it 
is  premature  truth,  powerless  because  unveri- 
fiable.  For  any  positive  effect  on  the  time, 
the  time  and  the  man  must  meet,  —  the  time 

255 


gmntrap  (Ebentiifffi  in  t&e  College  Cfcapel 

with  its  special  need,  and  the  man  touching 
that  need  with  the  spark  of  his  personality 
and  kindling  it  into  a  flame.  Each  new  life, 
then,  as  it  ventures  out  into  the  world  of  its 
own  age,  asks  afresh :  "  What  are  the  signs 
of  my  own  times  ?  What  are  the  things  about 
me  that  are  going  to  stay  ?  How  may  I  dis- 
tinguish the  evanescent  characteristics  of  the 
present  age  from  those  which  reveal  its  inner 
life?  Whither  flows  the  stream  on  which  I 
desire  to  embark,  and  whither  whirl  the  eddies 
which  may  detain  my  course  ?  "  And  in  our 
own  time,  as  in  all  past  ages,  the  two  kinds 
of  signs  stand  over  against  each  other  —  the 
signs  which  satisfied  the  Pharisees,  and  the 
signs  which  inspired  the  Christ ;  the  shallow 
judgment  which  interprets  the  surface  of  the 
time,  and  the  profounder  faith  which  reads 
its  heart ;  the  way  of  easy  conformity,  and 
the  way  of  creative  power. 

From  many  points  of  view  the  period  just 
before  us  is  likely  to  be  the  most  interest- 
ing time  in  the  history  of  the  world,  and  the 
man  who  shall  have  the  privilege  of  living 
through  the  next  twenty-five  years  will  pro- 
bably see  such  transformations  in  political 
methods,  in  national  relations,  in  industrial 
256 


Umntoap  Ctoeninfffi  in  t\)t  College  Cljapel 

principles,  and  in  theological  systems,  as  the 
civilized  world  has  never  witnessed  before. 
In  the  presence  of  such  a  time,  with  its  extra- 
ordinary possibilities,  stands  to-day  a  young 
man  with  all  the  privileges  which  meet  him 
in  the  university  and  sets  himself  to  think  of 
the  signs  of  the  times.  How  shall  the  uni- 
versity contribute  to  the  deeper  movement  of 
the  age  ?  What  are  the  eddies  in  which  the 
academic  life  is  most  likely  to  be  ensnared  ? 
How  is  it  that  the  Pharisee,  with  his  self- 
contented  superficiality,  threatens  the  aca- 
demic world,  and  how  is  it  that  the  spirit  of 
Jesus  Christ  may  interpret  to  the  university 
the  real  signs  of  the  present  time  ? 

First,  then,  among  these  deeper  aspects  of 
the  age  we  must  name  its  demand  for  the 
idealist.  On  the  surface  of  things  the  very  op- 
posite of  this  demand  is  seen.  It  looks  like  an 
age  of  materialism,  of  commercialism,  of  real- 
ism. Scientific  habits  have  developed  confi- 
dence in  material  forces ;  business  life  encour- 
ages material  accumulation  ;  social  customs 
multiply  material  luxury ;  literature  yields  to 
material  motives.  How  inapplicable  seem  the 
stern  standards  of  earlier  books,  or  art,  or  so- 
cial life !  What  is  honored  today  except  suc- 

^57 


gmn&ap  (Kbentnga  m  t&e  College  C&apel 

cess  ?  Why  should  one  come  to  the  univer- 
sity except  to  get  ahead  in  the  world  ?  How 
shall  a  young  man  adjust  himself  to  the  signs 
of  the  present  time,  unless  he  give  himself 
to  accumulation  and  enjoyment,  to  the  litera- 
ture of  the  senses  and  the  philosophy  of  the 
flesh? 

Oh  foolish  generation,  answers  the  Mas- 
ter, ye  can  discern  the  face  of  the  sky,  but 
ye  cannot  discern  the  signs  of  the  times.  You 
understand  the  superficial  incidents  of  the 
passing  day,  but  you  do  not  realize  what  the 
heart  of  the  age  desires.  If  there  is  anything 
manifested  by  the  interior  life  of  the  present 
time,  it  is  its  sense  of  the  inadequacy  of  ma- 
terialism as  a  law  of  life  and  its  hunger  for  a 
new  revival  of  idealism.  A  young  man  who 
fancies  that  modern  philosophy  has  found  its 
permanent  resting-place  in  the  materialism 
of  the  last  generation  is  simply  unfamiliar 
with  the  new  idealism  which  is  commanding 
the  loyalty  of  philosophy  to-day.  A  young  man 
who  sees  in  the  literature  of  the  world,  the 
flesh,  and  the  devil  the  final  product  of  the 
present  age,  has  simply  not  perceived  where 
the  great  opportunity  of  literature  at  this 
moment  lies.  A  young  man  who  supposes 
258 


Smnfcap  €toening;0  in  t(jc  College  Cfoapel 

that  the  Christian  religion  has  spent  its  force, 
and  lingers  as  a  mere  historical  survival  among 
the  sentimentalists  of  to-day,  is  simply  unob- 
servant of  the  fact  that  the  Christian  religion 
is  just  coming  to  be  understood  in  its  depth 
and  breadth  and  simplicity,  and  just  beginning 
to  inspire  practical  and  comprehensive  pur- 
poses of  redemption  such  as  the  history  of 
Christianity  has  rarely  seen  before. 

How  expectantly  the  world  is  waiting  in 
our  day  for  a  revival  of  idealism,  in  drama 
and  romance,  in  literature  and  life !  How  stif- 
ling is  the  atmosphere  through  which  sweeps 
no  suggestion  of  the  great  or  good  !  Politics, 
however  debased,  respond  even  to-day  to  the 
call  of  the  idealist,  and  reforms  which  seemed 
impossible  become  practical  under  his  touch. 
Art  languishes  in  grotesqueness  and  exagger- 
ation until  it  is  breathed  on  by  the  sense  of 
the  Infinite,  and  then  power,  vision,  character, 
give  signs  of  their  return.  Wealth  is  to  justify 
itself,  if  it  can  be  justified  at  all,  by  its  dedi- 
cation to  ideal  ends.  Great,  rich,  grasping 
America  has  attained  a  material  prosperity  un- 
precedented in  the  history  of  the  human  race, 
yet  never  was  there  a  people  less  satiated, 
more  eager  for   still  unpossessed   riches   of 

259 


Stmto?  €beninfffi  in  tjje  College  Chapel 

refinement,  education,  imagination,  religion; 
never  such  a  founding  of  colleges  and  philan- 
thropies, never  such  a  thirst  for  self-culture, 
and  such  scouring  of  the  world  for  new  philo- 
sophies and  new  religions.  The  interior  con- 
dition of  mind  of  the  American  people  to-day 
is  one  of  expectation  and  desire,  responsive  to 
every  prophecy  of  ideal  truth.  Beneath  the 
worldliness  and  frivolity  of  the  time  there  is 
beginning  to  stir,  like  a  quiet  tide  beneath  rest- 
less waves,  a  new  movement  of  philanthropy, 
education,  and  religion ;  and  it  is  not  impos- 
sible that  when  the  signs  of  the  present  age 
are  summed  up  by  some  philosophic  historian 
of  the  future,  it  may  be  described  as  a  time, 
not  of  the  boisterous  materialism  which  is 
now  conspicuous,  but  of  the  first  beginnings 
of  a  great  revival  of  idealism. 

Now,  this  sign  of  the  times  is  a  sign  to  ed- 
ucated men.  A  university  is  a  home  of  ideal- 
ism. This  place  was  founded  by  men  who  be- 
lieved that  life  was  more  than  meat  and  raiment. 
We  stand  for  the  Christian  doctrine  that  a 
man  lives  not  by  bread  alone,  but  by  every 
word  that  proceeds  out  of  the  mouth  of  God. 
The  aim  of  a  university  is  not  primarily  ac- 
quisition, but  discernment.  A  university,  like 
260 


g>tm&ap  Ctjeninffg  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

the  world  about  it,  has  its  eddies  of  material- 
ism, its  loose  talk  of  sordid  and  animal  aims, 
its  Pharisaic  superficiality ;  but  any  young  man 
is  a  fool  if  he  is  caught  in  one  of  these  eddies 
of  academic  life.  He  should  discern — and  thank 
God  for  the  discovery  —  that  the  main  stream 
of  the  university  flows  toward  ideal  pursuits  and 
spiritual  ends.  Let  him  give  himself,  then,  to 
the  main  movement,  to  the  studies  which  en- 
large, to  the  teachers  who  inspire,  to  the  lead- 
ership which  strengthens  his  ideals,  to  the  re- 
ligion which  he  will  find,  not  noisy,  but  deep 
and  pure.  Nothing  could  be  more  contrary  to 
the  spirit  of  the  time  than  for  a  young  man 
to  imagine  that  one  is  wiser  to-day  who  aban- 
dons his  ideals  and  settles  into  the  prudence 
of  the  world.  If  he  desire  to  have  any  creative 
part  in  that  future  America  which  stands  be- 
fore us,  with  its  portentous  problems  of  de- 
mocracy and  property,  of  public  morals  and 
religious  progress,  let  him  view  these  issues 
of  the  time  in  the  light  of  permanent  princi- 
ples of  faith.  The  idealist  to-day  may  have 
his  experience  of  scorn  and  disappointment, 
as  did  the  Master-idealist  of  history,  and  the 
Pharisees  may  have  their  little  day  of  leader- 
ship, but  the  heart  of  this  nation  is  ready  to 
261 


StmUa?  <£beninffs  in  t&e  College  Cljapei 

turn  to  the  man  of  faith.  "Where  there  is  no 
vision,"  said  the  prophet,  "  the  people  perish." 
It  is  true  of  our  own  land  to-day.  And  who 
are  our  natural  idealists?  Your  young  men, 
answers  another  prophet,  see  your  visions, 
while  many  an  old  man's  worldly  wisdom 
passes  away  like  a  morning  dream. 

A  second  sign  of  the  times  must  be  added 
to  the  first,  and  is  again  a  sign  to  educated 
men.  It  is  the  demand  for  the  optimist.  On 
the  surface  of  the  age  there  is  more  than 
enough  to  encourage  the  philosophy  of  de- 
spair. We  look  about  us  at  politics  degraded, 
business  corrupted,  and  literature  enfeebled, 
at  domestic  unity  threatened  and  religious 
sanctions  abandoned,  and  the  pessimist's 
complaint  of  social  degeneracy  seems  to  get 
a  new  right  to  be  heard.  America  seems 
no  place  for  scholars  and  gentlemen,  and  aca- 
demic refinement  hides  itself  in  despondency 
or  utters  itself  in  disgust.  But  in  reality  this 
is  no  real  discernment  of  the  signs  of  the  times. 
The  fact  is  that  many  of  these  signs  of  social 
upheaval  are  evidences,  not  of  social  deca- 
dence, but  of  social  health,  like  the  boisterous 
vitality  of  a  rude  and  healthy  boy.  What  are 
these  agitations  of  industry  but  signs  of  the 
262 


Smntoap  6toenin£0  in  t^t  College  Cfjapel 

amazing  advance  in  power  and  resources  of  the 
hand-working  class  ?  What  are  these  new  prob- 
lems of  philanthropy  but  testimony  to  its  in- 
crease in  wisdom  and  discretion?  What  do 
these  faults  of  literature  mean  but  a  new  striv- 
ing for  sincerity,  and  these  perplexities  of  the- 
ology but  a  more  candid  scholarship  ?  A  man 
who  is  beginning  his  life  to-day  is  entering 
into  a  quite  unprecedented  world  of  duty  and 
happiness,  of  education  and  responsibility,  and 
he  must  be  patient  with  much  crudity  in  imme- 
diate result ;  but  this  challenge  of  new  forces 
and  conditions  ought  to  make  any  healthy- 
minded  young  man  glad  that  his  life  is  be- 
ginning now.  Thus  the  young  man  who  reads 
the  signs  of  his  times  to-day  is  an  optimist, 
not  with  the  easy  optimism  which  ignores  the 
graver  aspects  of  life,  but  with  the  rational 
hope  which  discerns  good  at  the  heart  of  things, 
the  struggle  for  existence  moulding  the  higher 
type,  and  the  course  of  evolution  giving  new 
force  to  the  spiritual  life  of  man. 

And  here  again  is  a  sign  of  the  times  for 
the  university  to  see.  What  a  strange  fact  it 
seems  that  in  the  academic  life  of  privilege  and 
ease  there  sometimes  grows,  as  in  a  hothouse, 
the  exotic  plant  of  cynicism  and  contempt ! 
2r»3 


J&mrtap  (Ebentnjjfi  in  t&e  College  Cfcapel 

Yet  it  is  not  a  wholly  unnatural  growth.  It  is 
simply  a  witness  of  inexperience  trying  to  in- 
terpret experience.  The  world  of  seriousness 
and  tragedy  makes  its  first  approach  to  many  a 
man  in  his  university  life.  It  comes  to  him  in 
unreal  and  imaginary  ways,  through  literature 
and  art,  through  imagination  and  reflection, 
and  the  world  so  pictured  seems  to  him  too 
bad  to  be  borne.  It  is  like  the  coming  of  a 
strong,  fresh  wind,  which  sweeps  a  gusty  whirl 
before  it,  as  though  it  were  a  storm  that  was 
brewing,  when  it  is  only  the  first  rush  of  a 
stimulating  breeze.  This  is  no  real  discerning 
of  the  signs  of  the  time.  It  is  simply  the 
shrinking  away  from  them  into  feeble  dilet- 
tantism and  cynical  despair. 

When  one  turns  back  from  this  academic 
impotency  to  the  healthy-mindedness  of  Jesus 
Christ,  he  understands  what  rational  optimism 
means.  The  same  circumstances,  which  to 
many  eyes  looked  hopelessly  barren,  seemed 
to  Jesus  good  ground  for  his  sowing.  It  was 
a  part  of  his  faith  in  God  to  be  full  of  hope 
for  man,  and  without  that  comprehensive 
hope  he  would  have  been  no  helper  of  man- 
kind. It  is  the  same  to-day.  The  chief  rea- 
son for  the  ineffectiveness  of  many  edu- 
264 


Smntoap  CtormnjG  in  tbe  College  Cbapcl 

cated  men  in  the  modern  world  is  their  intel- 
lectual cowardice  in  the  presence  of  the  im- 
perfections of  life ;  and  the  world  is  waiting 
to-day  for  men  who,  with  their  equipment  of 
culture,  maintain  a  robust  and  genuine  hope. 
The  Samaritan  plain,  by  the  well  of  Jacob,  lay 
hot  and  dry  one  day  before  Jesus  and  his 
friends.  The  seed  had  just  been  planted,  and 
it  gave  as  yet  no  signs  of  life.  But  the  Mas- 
ter read  in  the  signs  of  his  own  time  the  cer- 
tainty of  the  future.  Before  his  mighty  hope 
the  sterile  fields  waved  their  tassels  of  ripened 
grain.  "  Lift  up  your  eyes,"  cried  the  pro- 
phetic optimist  to  his  undiscerning  and  un- 
welcoming age,  "  and  look  on  the  fields,  for 
they  are  white  already  to  harvest." 

One  other  aspect  of  the  signs  of  the  times 
is  the  most  conspicuous  and  characteristic  of 
all.  It  is  the  new  sense  of  social  responsibility, 
the  recognition  of  social  service  as  the  test  of 
character.  On  the  surface  of  the  age  there  is 
still  a  scrambling  individualism,  and  much 
which  calls  itself  in  our  day  socialism  is  but  dis- 
guised self-seeking  and  ambition,  the  unsuc- 
cessful despoiling  the  prosperous,  and  the 
"outs"  trying  to  get  in.  Many  a  Pharisee, 
looking  at  these  signs  of  the  times,  would  give 
265 


gmii&ap  <£toenmgfl  in  t&e  College  Cfcapel 

as  his  advice  to  a  young  man  to-day  the  coun- 
sel that  he  must  win  in  the  scramble  and  en- 
joy the  spoils.  But  beneath  this  self-seeking 
of  the  time  there  is  heard  by  this  age  as  never 
before  the  call  to  social  service,  the  voice  of 
that  moral  socialism  which  dares  to  dream  of 
a  better  world,  and  tries  even  in  the  crudest 
ways  to  create  it.  Not  to  the  churches  only  — 
indeed,  not  to  the  churches  most  conspicuously 
—  but  to  employers  and  economists,  to  philo- 
sophers and  politicians,  to  busy  men  and  gener- 
ous women,  there  has  come  a  new  appreciation 
of  the  Christian  Gospel :  "  No  man  liveth  to 
himself  " ;  "  Bear  ye  one  another's  burdens  " ; 
"  Ye  are  members  one  of  another  "  ;  "  For 
their  sakes  I  sanctify  myself."  To  this  moral 
socialism  in  its  many  expressions  the  whole 
movement  of  serious  life  and  thought  to-day 
is  hastening  with  surprising  speed ;  and  no 
young  man  has  any  discernment  of  the  times 
who  does  not  recognize  this  sign.  Never  before 
was  it  so  plain  that  the  religion  of  Jesus  Christ 
is  not  a  plan  of  personal  safety  from  a  general 
wreck,  but  a  call  to  save  the  whole  great  ship- 
load of  humanity  and  bring  it  safe  to  port. 

And  meantime  what  is  the  chief  sin  of  the 
academic  life  ?    It  is  not  positive  vice  or  con- 
266 


SmnUa?  C'Dtnmp  in  t&e  C ollrcjr  Cbaprl 

scious  wrong-doing.  It  is  social  irresponsi- 
bility. Most  young  men  have  been  trained  in 
boyhood  to  think  only  of  themselves,  and  when 
in  their  isolated  consciousness  they  find  no 
sin,  they  hold  themselves  —  and  their  parents 
commonly  hold  them  — blameless  ;  and  many 
a  scholar  of  riper  years,  absorbed  in  his  re- 
searches and  acquisitions,  is  almost  unaware 
that  the  scholar  may  be  as  selfish  as  the  miser, 
and  that  with  the  scholar's  social  privilege 
comes  also  the  scholar's  social  duty.  Thus  it 
sometimes  happens  that  the  great  movements 
of  the  world's  life  come  beating  up  against 
the  walls  of  the  university  like  a  wave  against 
the  shore,  and  are  driven  back  by  an  impene- 
trable hardness,  and  go  surging  by  into  other 
channels  more  open  to  their  sweep,  until  the 
academic  life  feels  last  of  all  the  rising  tide  of 
the  signs  of  the  times. 

Thank  God,  all  this  becomes  less  true  as 
the  years  go  by.  Beneath  the  irresponsible 
life  which  tempts  young  men  in  the  course 
of  their  education,  they  are  perceiving  more 
and  more  these  signs  of  the  times,  and  the 
tide  of  its  spirit  is  bearing  them  out  into 
forms  of  social  service  which  would  have 
seemed  to  the  college  man  of  a  generation 
267 


iSmnUap  (Kbeninffa  in  fyt  College  C&apel 

ago  amazing,  if  not  vulgar.  What  does  it 
mean  that  the  last  and  best  conception  of 
philanthropy,  the  simple  method  of  residence 
among  the  poor,  and  the  consequent  conta- 
gion of  the  cultivated  life,  is  a  university  idea, 
originated  by  university  men,  and  spreading 
through  the  cities  of  Great  Britain  and  America 
under  the  name  of  University  Settlements  ? 
It  means  that  the  signs  of  the  times  are  dis- 
cerned at  last  by  the  academic  world,  the 
selfishness  of  the  scholar  being  cast  out  by 
the  spirit  of  the  age,  and  the  aim  of  education 
found  in  the  added  power  it  gives  to  be  of 
use  among  the  needs  of  the  modern  world. 

Here,  then,  are  three  signs  of  the  times 
which  report  its  real  character,  —  the  idealism 
which  justifies  the  imperfect  present,  the  op- 
timism which  beholds  the  better  future,  and 
the  social  service  through  which  that  future 
is  to  arrive.  It  is  easy  to  see  how  the  lack 
of  these  qualities  blights  many  an  educated 
life,  and  leaves  many  a  man  who  ought  to  be  a 
leader  as  impotent  as  the  Pharisees  in  the 
days  of  Jesus,  with  no  discernment  of  the  real 
signs  of  the  age.  But  it  is  not  so  easy  to  tell 
what  might  happen  if  this  discernment  of  the 
times  could  prevail  among  us  here  and  could 
268 


£>tmtoap  fctenuiffg  in  tlje  Collie  C&apel 

become  the  practical  creed  of  young  and  old. 
In  such  a  golden  age  —  which  might  be  this 
very  year  —  I  see  a  young  man  come  one  day 
to  the  university  with  the  interests  and  ambi- 
tions of  a  boy.  His  philosophy  of  life  has  thus 
far  been  one  of  material  success ;  his  view  of 
the  world  is  timid ;  his  absorbing  interest  is 
devoted  to  himself.  Then  I  see  the  spirit  of  a 
great  place  of  learning  take  control  of  this 
young  life.  I  see  it  avoiding  the  eddies  and 
quicksands  of  the  university  and  borne  along 
in  the  stream  of  its  central  current.  An  intel- 
lectual ideal  takes  command  of  this  young  man. 
He  finds  something  he  wants  to  know,  and 
his  study  broadens  before  him  to  ideal  ends. 
He  begins  to  understand  those  great  words  : 
"  Ye  shall  know  the  truth,  and  the  truth  shall 
make  you  free."  He  enters  into  the  freedom 
of  the  scholar,  and  the  tastes  and  tendencies 
which  had  tempted  his  youth  let  go  their 
hold  upon  his  mind.  He  is  no  longer  a  school- 
boy condemned  to  a  task  ;  he  is  one  of  a  great 
company  who  are  to  make  known  to  a  com- 
mercial age  its  own  interior  and  ideal  needs. 
As  this  new  loyalty  to  an  ideal  begins  to 
possess  the  youth,  there  comes  with  it  a 
new  hope.  About  him  there  are  indolent, 
269 


JSmntoap  (EDenmjrfi  in  the  College  C&apel 

dilettante,  critical  minds,  caught  in  the  eddy 
of  academic  pessimism,  despairing  of  a  world 
which  they  have  not  learned  to  know,  sit- 
ting on  the  bank  of  life  like  shivering  boys 
who  cannot  trust  themselves  to  swim.  All 
this  self-conscious  feebleness  drops  away  from 
the  young  man  who  has  found  an  ideal  to 
which  to  give  his  life.  With  his  faith  comes  his 
hope.  He  is  delivered  from  frivolous  contemp- 
tuousness  and  youthful  cynicism.  "Blessed  is 
the  man,"  says  the  Psalmist,  "who  sitteth  not 
in  the  seat  of  the  scornful."  It  is  the  blessing 
which  is  given  to  a  healthy-minded  youth.  He 
does  not  sit  with  the  contemptuous  ;  he  rises 
up  to  serve  with  the  hopeful.  He  believes  in 
his  own  times;  not  with  the  foolish  optimism 
of  a  boy,  but  with  that  rational  optimism  which 
discerns  that  — 

"  Step  by  step  since  time  began 
We  see  the  steady  gain  of  man." 

Finally,  this  young  man,  waked  from  his 
indifference  into  faith  and  hope,  finds  that 
his  idealism  and  his  optimism  are  given  him, 
not  as  luxuries  to  enjoy,  but  as  instruments 
to  use  for  the  redemption  of  his  time.  He 
hears  the  cry  of  the  age,  issuing  from  its 
trouble  and  its  sin,  from  its  industrial  malad- 
270 


gmitUap  (Stoning;*  in  tlje  College  Cfcapel 

justments  and  its  spiritual  emptiness — the 
cry  for  well-trained  men  to  serve  in  these 
new  fields  of  redemption  —  and  he  simply 
and  humbly  answers  to  this  new  call  of  God, 
"  Lord,  here  am  I :  send  me."  He  looks 
across  the  centuries  to  the  great  idealist  and 
optimist  of  history,  and  sees  that  transcendent 
faith  and  hope  dedicated  to  the  love  of  man. 
"And  now  abideth  faith,  hope,  love,  these 
three,"  says  Christ's  Apostle ;  "  but  the  great- 
est of  these  is  love." 

Such  is  the  young  man  who  discerns  the 
signs  of  his  times.  His  education,  if  it  be  fit 
for  the  present  age,  has  taught  him  to  dis- 
criminate between  the  superficial  and  the 
fundamental  aspects  of  the  age,  and  has  deliv- 
ered him  from  materialism,  pessimism,  and 
selfishness  into  the  liberty  of  faith  and  hope 
and  love.  Nor  is  this  education  only ;  this  is 
religion.  This  is  Christian  manhood  in  the 
present  age.  What  does  Jesus  Christ  ask  of  a 
man  to-day  ?  He  looked  on  his  own  time  and 
perceived  beneath  its  Pharisaism  the  profound 
desire  for  a  living  faith  ;  he  looked  again,  and 
was  stirred  to  a  mighty  hope ;  he  looked  again, 
and  gave  himself  to  the  life  of  service,  with 
an  absolute  and  comprehensive  love;  and  the 
271 


gmitirap  ©beltings  in  tlje  College  C&apel 

time  that  seemed  to  scorn  him  proved  to  be 
the  very  time  that  was  ripe  for  his  coming. 
So  he  turns  to  his  young  follower  to-day  and 
says  :  "  If  any  man  will  come  after  me,  let 
him  take  up  his  own  responsibility  and  bur- 
den, his  care  and  his  cross,  and  follow  me." 
Troubles  he  will  have  to  bear,  and  apparent 
failures,  and  the  Pharisees  will  find  him  as 
unpractical  and  visionary  as  they  once  found 
his  Lord.  But  this  is  his  happiness  —  and  no 
man  can  have  greater  happiness — that  he  is 
living  in  the  line  of  God's  plan  for  the  pre- 
sent age,  a  laborer  together  with  God,  a  dis- 
cerner  of  the  signs  of  his  times,  adding  the 
effort  of  his  oars  to  the  current  of  the  Divine 
intention.  Here  is  the  river  of  the  age  sweep- 
ing through  the  world,  with  many  tortuous 
eddies  and  threatening  shoals,  but  with  the 
purpose  of  God  directing  its  central  stream. 
Shall  we  not  launch  our  little  lives  into  its 
channel,  and  give  ourselves  to  its  deeper  cur- 
rent, as  it  bears  us  through  the  narrow  wind- 
ings of  the  present  time  toward  the  larger 
future,  as  a  broadening  river  seeks  the  sea  ? 


272 


XVI 
A  BROAD   PLACE 

A  Sermon  at  thb  Two  Hundred  and  Fiftieth  An- 
niversary of  the  Founding  of  Harvard  College 

Even  so  would  he  have  removed  thee  out  of  a  strait  into 
a  broad  place. — Job  xxxvi,  16. 

[HERE  is  but  one  note  to  strike 
throughout  our  worship  to-day.  It  is 
the  note  of  thanksgiving.  We  are 
here  to  thank  God  for  the  wonderful  and  in- 
creasing multitude  of  blessings  through  which 
our  University  has  been  led,  —  for  the  bless- 
ings which  she  has  been  permitted  to  receive, 
and  the  blessings  which  she  has  been  able  to  be- 
stow. We  thank  God  for  His  influence  on  the 
hearts  of  our  ancestors,  so  moving  them  that 
they  waited  neither  for  days  of  prosperity  nor 
of  peace  to  found  this  college,  but,  "  fearing 
God's  displeasure  visited  upon  ignorance 
more  than  they  feared  their  own  poverty  or 
their  savage  enemies,"  set  apart  "a  year's 
rate  of  the  whole  colony  "  to  establish  a  place 

273 


gmntiap  (Kbentn^  in  tfje  College  C&apel 

of  learning.  We  thank  God  that  we  can 
fairly  join  with  the  historian  of  the  Univer- 
sity in  believing  that  "  for  a  like  spirit  under 
like  circumstances  history  will  be  searched  in 
vain."  We  thank  God  for  the  marvellous  con- 
trasts of  the  present  and  the  past,  for  strange 
deliverances  from  perilous  controversies,  for 
the  widening  of  intellectual  horizon  and  the 
increase  of  spiritual  liberty  which  have  been 
witnessed  here.  We  thank  God  that,  by 
ways  which  the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors  could 
not  have  conceived,  and  from  which  their 
hearts  would  have  recoiled,  we  have  been 
brought  "out  of  a  strait  into  a  broad  place." 

It  is  not  for  to-day,  or  for  a  service  of  wor- 
ship, to  trace  in  detail  the  story  of  these 
heroic  beginnings  and  this  dramatic  growth. 
We  are  waiting  with  a  great  expectation  for 
this  story  as  it  will  be  told  to-morrow  in 
lyric  prose  and  eloquent  verse.  But,  after 
all,  the  most  striking  and  central  part  of  this 
history  remains  the  peculiar  property  of  this 
day  and  of  our  worship  here.  For  the  story 
of  those  early  days,  though  it  abounds  in  po- 
litical and  intellectual  interest,  is  in  its  cen- 
tral character  nothing  else  than  a  chapter  of 
religious  history.  Its  hopes  and  heroisms  are 
274 


&tmtoap  Omfogfl  in  tlje  Colitge  C&apel 

those  of  the  religious  life ;  its  controversies  and 
dissensions  are  those  of  the  theologians.  The 
college  was  founded  for  the  specific  purpose 
of  rearing  fit  persons  for  the  Christian  min- 
istry, or,  as  the  first  appeal  for  help  announced, 
"  that  the  Commonwealth  may  be  furnished 
with  knowing  and  understanding  men,  and  the 
churches  with  an  able  ministry."  This  pur- 
pose directed  the  whole  history  which  we 
commemorate.  In  the  first  list  of  college  reg- 
ulations, —  called,  as  now  seems  curious,  "the 
liberties"  of  the  college,  — the  first  rules  are 
these :  "  Every  scholar  shall  consider  the 
main  end  of  his  life  and  study  to  know  God 
and  Jesus  Christ.  Every  one  shall  so  exercise 
himself  in  reading  the  Scriptures  twice  a  day, 
that  they  be  ready  to  give  an  account  of  their 
proficiency.  And  all  sophisters  and  bachelors 
shall  publicly  repeat  sermons  in  the  hall 
whenever  [they  are  called  forth."  Such  was 
the  college  in  its  interior  life;  and  when, 
somewhat  later,  there  was  doubt  in  the  com- 
munity as  to  its  administration,  and  ten  articles 
were  proposed  for  a  visitation  of  its  affairs, 
seven  of  these  articles  had  exclusive  refer- 
ence to  its  religious  and  moral  condition. 
"  Whether  the  Holy  Scriptures  be  daily  read 
275 


IsmnUap  €toenui£g  in  t&e  College  Cljapel 

in  the  hall,  and  how  often  expounded?"  "  How 
are  the  Saturday  exercises  performed,  and 
are  the  great  concerns  of  their  souls  duly  in- 
culcated in  the  youths  ? " 

This  primitive  Puritan  college  was,  then, 
an  institution  founded  by  men  in  whom  the 
sense  of  God  was  the  controlling  impulse, 
and  to  whom  His  glory  was  the  end  of  edu- 
cation. When  the  families  of  the  colony 
brought  of  their  poverty  offerings  to  the  col- 
lege, —  the  one  of  five  shillings,  and  the 
other  of  a  few  sheep,  and  the  other  the  fourth 
part  of  a  bushel  of  corn,  or  "something 
equivalent  thereto,"  —  it  was  not  as  an  offer- 
ing to  culture,  but  as  an  offering  to  religion. 
It  was  the  widow  casting  her  mite  into  the 
treasury  of  the  temple  for  the  sake  of  the 
faith  which  she  desired  to  have  fitly  preached. 
It  is,  therefore,  a  fortunate  coincidence  that 
our  day  of  commemoration  falls  upon  our  day 
of  worship,  and  that  we  are  called,  first  of  all, 
to  take  up  our  great  theme  in  the  language 
of  religion.  The  University  has  wisely  in- 
vited her  graduates,  wherever  they  are  serv- 
ing her  to-day  in  the  Christian  ministry,  to 
direct  their  thoughts  toward  this  history  of 
their  college;  and  we  rejoice  to  think  how 
276 


gmntoap  (Etoeninp  in  t&e  CoUcffe  Cfcapci 

the  whole  continent  is  this  morning  girdled 
with  these  prayers  of  filial  love.  A  University 
with  such  a  history  can  never  be  indifferent 
or  neutral  to  the  problems  of  faith  and  duty. 
She  may  change  her  methods,  but  never  her 
desire.  She  has  had  set  before  her  by  her 
founders  the  ideal  of  education  as  a  work  to 
do  in  the  sight  of  God,  —  education  under 
religious  responsibility;  education  as  a  means 
to  character.  We  thank  God  for  this  ;  and  we 
survey  this  history  aright  only  when  we  re- 
member it,  first  of  all,  in  the  spirit  of  worship 
and  under  the  guidance  of  prayer. 

Let  us  then  dismiss  from  our  minds  to-day 
other  aspects  of  this  history,  and  consider 
the  relations  of  the  University  to  the  moral 
and  religious  life.  Let  us  trace  the  wonder- 
ful contrasts  which  present  themselves  in 
this  central  concern,  —  the  gains,  the  losses, 
and  the  lessons  of  religious  faith,  which  are 
to  be  seen  in  this  transition  from  "a  strait 
into  a  broad  place."  Let  us  set  over  against 
each  other  the  way  of  the  higher  life,  as  it 
seems  to  have  been  in  a  Puritan  college  and 
as  it  ought  to  be  in  a  modern  university. 

The  Puritan  State  out  of  which  our  college 
sprang  presents  a  curious  paradox.  On  the 

277 


g>tm&a2>  (Ktoeningfl:  in  t&e  College  CJmpel 

one  hand,  it  was  among  the  most  heroic,  de- 
vout, and  fruitful  incidents  of  history ;  on  the 
other  hand,  it  was  among  the  most  hopeless, 
Quixotic,  and  fruitless  dreams  of  religious 
enthusiasm.  Its  spirit  was  a  sense  of  respon- 
sibility to  God  in  every  detail  of  social  and 
political  life  ;  its  form  was  the  illusory  scheme 
of  a  State  based  on  the  Old  Testament.  In 
its  spirit,  we  can  compare  it  only  with  that 
intimate  recognition  of  a  living  God  which 
makes  Hebrew  history  sacred.  In  its  form, 
we  must  compare  it  with  those  visionary 
communities  which  have  been  so  confidently 
proposed,  from  the  days  of  Plato's  Republic 
to  the  days  of  Brook  Farm.  Thus,  the  Puri- 
itan  State  was  at  once  a  conspicuous  failure 
and  a  magnificent  success.  The  Puritan  failed 
in  the  purpose  on  which  he  had  set  his 
heart ;  and  he  would  look  with  bewilderment, 
if  not  with  horror,  on  the  community  which 
he  himself  created.  Yet  the  very  qualities 
in  him  which  made  him  sure  to  fail  are  the 
very  qualities  which  have  been  perpetuated, 
and  which  it  would  be  our  social  ruin  to  lose. 
It  is  easy  to  trace  the  elements  of  this 
strange  contradiction.  On  the  one  hand 
stands  the  form  of  Puritanism.  These  men 
278 


&tmiap  CucnmsB  in  t&c  College  Cbapel 

meant  to  build  a  State  which  should  repro- 
duce the  theocracy  of  the  Hebrews.  They 
seemed  to  themselves  a  chosen  people,  driven 
forth  into  a  new  land  with  no  guidance  but 
that  of  Jehovah.  "  They  guided  their  legisla- 
tion," as  one  historian  has  said,  "with  a  Jew- 
ish austerity,  and  reinforced  their  authority 
by  Old  Testament  texts."  Repeating  thus  the 
theocracy  of  the  Hebrews,  they  were  bound 
to  repeat  the  intolerance  of  the  Hebrews.  It 
was  a  question  between  serving  God  and 
serving  Baal.  The  logic  of  their  situation 
sent  Roger  Williams  to  Rhode  Island  and 
the  Quakers  to  the  gallows.  If  the  State 
were  but  the  instrument  of  the  Church,  then 
the  limitation  of  the  franchise  to  church- 
members  became  a  matter  of  course.  "  In 
England,"  says  John  Cotton,  "none  but 
members  of  the  Church  of  England  are  in- 
trusted with  the  management  of  affairs ;  in 
Popish  countries,  none  but  such  as  are  Cath- 
olics; in  Turkey,  none  but  men  devoted  to 
Mahomet.  Yea!  these  very  Indians  that  wor- 
ship the  Devil  will  not  be  under  the  govern- 
ment of  any  sagamores  but  such  as  join  with 
them  in  the  observance  of  their  ■  pow  wows' 
and  idolatries.  So  that  it  seems  to  be  a  prin- 
279 


gmnfcap  (Jfrjemnga  in  tfje  College  C&apel 

ciple  imprinted  in  the  minds  of  men,  that  such 
a  form  of  government  as  best  serves  to  es- 
tablish their  religion  should  be  established  in 
the  civil  state."  Thus  the  limited  franchise 
might  be  an  inexpedient  measure,  but  it  was 
an  inevitable  one.  It  was  the  corollary  of  the 
unfaltering  conviction  that  the  will  of  God 
had  been  revealed  in  a  peculiar  way.  "  Thus 
stands  the  case,"  said  Governor  Winthrop, 
"  between  God  and  us.  We  are  entered  into  a 
covenant  with  him  for  this  work.  We  have 
taken  out  a  commission." 

A  commonwealth  like  this,  though  it  might 
be  a  lofty  dream,  was  a  dream  impossible  of 
realization.  Like  the  charge  at  Balaklava,  it 
was  magnificent,  but  it  was  predestined  to  de- 
feat. It  might  be  logical  for  church  members 
alone  to  vote,  but  the  time  soon  would  come 
when  it  would  be  impossible.  The  choice  had 
to  be  made  between  yielding  the  form  and 
wrecking  the  State  ;  and  the  form  was  yielded. 
Thus  it  happens  that  those  who  could  not 
secure  what  they  desired,  bequeathed  to  us 
something  infinitely  more  precious.  The  limi- 
tation of  the  vote  passed  away,  but  the  vote  re- 
mained. The  Puritan  meant  to  give  us  church 
suffrage :  he  really  gave  us  the  free  ballot. 
280 


£>ttirtiap  (EtJcntnffB  in  t&e  College  Chanel 

He  meant  to  found   a  peculiar  people  :  he 
really  founded  a  free  State. 

And  what,  on  the  other  hand,  was  the  spirit 
of  Puritanism  which  this  rigid  form  concealed? 
It  was  a  spirit  of  the  most  straightforward 
and  simple  piety.  Never  was  a  Christian 
congregation  founded  whose  covenant  was 
more  adapted  to  all  time  than  the  coven- 
ant made  six  weeks  after  the  landing  of  Gov- 
ernor Winthrop,  and  still  inscribed  upon  the 
walls  of  the  First  Church  of  Boston.  Never 
was  a  nobler  exposition  of  the  principles  of 
Christian  society  than  in  Winthrop's  discourse 
written  upon  his  voyage.  It  removed  the  whole 
community  out  of  a  strait  into  a  broad  place. 
"  The  only  way  to  avoid  shipwreck,"  he  says, 
"  and  to  provide  for  our  prosperity,  is  to  fol- 
low the  counsel  of  Micah,  'to  do  justly,  to 
love  mercy,  and  to  walk  humbly  with  our 
God.'  For  this  work  we  must  be  knit  together 
as  one  man.  We  must  uphold  a  familiar  com- 
merce together,  in  all  meekness,  gentleness, 
patience,  and  liberality.  So  shall  we  keep  the 
unity  of  the  spirit  in  the  bond  of  peace.  We  shall 
find  that  the  God  of  Israel  is  among  us,  so  that 
men  shall  say  of  succeeding  plantations,  '  The 
Lord  make  it  like  to  that  of  New  England.' " 
281 


gmntoap  Ctoemnffa  in  tlje  College  C&apel 

What,  then,  might  happen  when  a  com- 
munity like  this,  with  this  conflict  within  itself 
of  an  impracticable  scheme  and  an  exalted 
ideal,  felt  the  duty  laid  upon  it  of  founding  a 
college  ?  There  might  lie  before  the  college 
either  the  way  of  the  Puritan  form  or  the 
way  of  the  Puritan  spirit.  The  college  might 
develop  along  the  line  of  intolerance  and 
narrowness,  or  along  the  line  of  a  simple 
sense  of  responsibility  to  God.  Nothing  could 
seem  more  uncertain  than  the  way  which 
the  college  might  take.  It  became  at  once  the 
centre  of  controversy  between  the  ecclesias- 
tics and  the  liberal-minded.  Its  history  has  a 
dramatic  interest.  We  wonder  how  soon  it 
will  be  overwhelmed  with  dogmatic  tests  or 
administered  out  of  party  interests.  We  see  it 
led  to  the  very  brink  of  these  fatal  issues.  It 
startles  us  to  think  what  kind  of  college  we 
might  have  inherited,  if  certain  words  then 
accepted  by  all  had  crept  into  its  charter,  or 
if,  as  so  nearly  happened,  Cotton  Mather  had 
succeeded  his  father  as  President.  "  I  am  in- 
formed," he  says  in  his  wrath,  "that  yesterday 
the  six  men  who  call  themselves  the  corpora- 
tion of  the  college  met,  and,  contrary  to  the 
epidemical  expectation  of  the  country,  chose  a 
282 


Umniiap  ^tjeninff0  in  tbe  ColUg;*  Cfrapel 

modest  young  man,  of  whose  piety  (and  little 
else)  every  one  gives  a  laudable  character.  I 
always  foretold  these  two  things  of  the  cor- 
poration :  first,  that  if  it  were  possible  for 
them  to  steer  clear  of  me,  they  will  do  so ; 
secondly,  that  if  it  were  possible  for  them  to 
act  foolishly,  they  will  do  so." 

Thus  from  the  outset  the  peril  of  bigotry 
beset  the  college.  Its  officials  were  judged, 
not  according  to  their  learning,  but  according 
to  their  orthodoxy.  The  first  President  was 
indicted  by  the  grand  jury,  convicted,  and 
dismissed  from  his  position  and  his  house  in 
the  dead  of  winter,  being  sent  forth  without 
a  home,  with  his  wife  sick,  and,  as  he  says, 
"  his  youngest  child  extremely  so,"  not  because 
he  was  not  a  virtuous,  humble,  and  learned 
man,  but  because,  as  Cotton  Mather  said,  he 
had  fallen  "  into  the  briars  of  anti-paedobap- 
tism."  The  second  President  did  not,  indeed, 
like  Dunster,  hold  that  only  adults  should  be 
baptized.  His  heresy  consisted  in  believing 
that  in  baptism  sprinkling  was  insufficient, 
and  that  the  infant  should  be  washed  all  ovec 
—  "an  opinion,"  says  the  historian,  "not  tol- 
erable in  this  cold  region,  and  impracticable 
in  certain  seasons  of  the  year."  It  was  for 

<*$ 


i&tm&ap  (Etoenttifffif  in  tfoe  College  C&apel 

such  a  conviction  that  President  Chauncey  suf- 
fered all  his  long  life,  finally  representing  to 
the  General  Court  "that  he  was  without  land 
to  keep  a  horse  or  cow  upon,  or  habitation  to 
be  dry  or  warm  in  ;  whereas,  in  English  uni- 
versities, the  president  is  allowed  diet  as  well 
as  stipend  according  to  his  wants."  And  it 
was  no  doubt  his  view  of  baptism  which  made 
the  committee  of  the  General  Court  report  on 
this  petition,  "  that  they  conceived  the  coun- 
try has  done  honorably  toward  petitioner, 
and  that  his  parity  with  English  colleges  is 
not  pertinent." 

Here  is  the  way  in  which  the  college  seemed 
at  first  inevitably  led,  —  the  way  of  doctrinal 
tests  and  sectarian  animosity.  It  was  "  a  strait 
place"  to  which  it  seemed  directed,  —  a  place 
of  contention,  first  between  the  various  fac- 
tions of  one  sect,  and  then  no  less  between 
the  prevailing  sect  and  the  vigorous  move- 
ment of  Anglicanism.  It  is  safe  to  say  that 
if  this  way  of  development  had  been  taken, 
we  should  have  little  to  celebrate  to-day.  But, 
by  a  guidance  which  appears  miraculous  at 
such  a  time,  the  college  was  led  of  God  "  out 
of  a  strait  into  a  broad  place."  It  seems 
fairly  incredible  that  at  the  very  time  when 
284 


i&mitfjap  €toenmg;fi  in  t(je  College  Cjjapci 

the  orthodoxy  of  its  officers  was  thus  sus- 
pected, and  the  religious  opinion  of  its  stu- 
dents a  matter  of  constant  concern,  there 
should  not  appear  in  any  charter  of  the  col- 
lege a  single  word  of  doctrinal  test  or  secta- 
rian tendency.  The  first  constitution  of  the 
college  dedicates  it  to  "  piety,  morality,  and 
learning."  The  charter  of  1650  announces  as 
its  object  "the  education  of  the  English  and 
Indian  youth  of  this  country  in  knowledge 
and  godliness";  and  in  1643  tne  college  seal 
was  adopted,  with  its  motto  "Veritas"  writ- 
ten across  the  open  books.  Piety,  morality,  god- 
liness, and  truth,  —  these  are  the  four  great 
words  which  mark  the  earliest  official  utter- 
ances of  this  college  in  its  relation  to  religion. 
Discuss  and  bicker  as  its  governors  might  con- 
cerning its  temporal  affairs,  it  seems  as  if  they 
were  sobered  and  lifted  in  thought  when 
they  dealt  with  the  religious  conditions  of 
the  institution,  with  the  same  sense  of  respon- 
sibility toward  young  souls  which  has  kept 
every  administration  of  the  college  ever  since 
above  all  suspicion  of  sectarian  purpose  or 
strategy.  We  are  led  in  such  utterances  out 
of  the  temporary  form  of  Puritanism  into  the 
higher  spirit  of  Puritanism.  The  incidents  of 
285 


Stmtoap  ©toenmffg  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

the  college  were  determined  by  the  one  :  its 
continuous  development  was  determined  by 
the  other.  Piety,  morality,  godliness,  and 
truth,  —  to  these  ends,  for  which  our  an- 
cestors founded  this  institution  and  made 
room  for  it  in  the  "  strait  place"  of  their 
struggling  life,  we  dedicate  her  life  once  more 
to-day.  We  know,  as  they  knew,  that  she  can 
serve  the  State  only  as  she  rears  her  students 
in  piety  and  morality.  We  know,  as  they 
knew,  that  her  permanent  prosperity  must 
come  through  her  increase  of  godliness  ;  and 
we  believe,  with  a  completeness  which  per- 
haps they  could  not  have  confessed,  that  the 
first  religious  duty  of  a  university  is  loyalty  to 
truth. 

Such  is  the  story  of  religion  in  its  official 
and  organic  relation  to  the  college.  It  is  a 
tale  of  strange  deliverances.  Superficially 
looked  at,  it  might  not  seem  a  record  which 
ministers  of  religion  could  recall  with  satis- 
faction ;  for  it  must  be  admitted  to  be  a  rec- 
ord of  continuous  decline  in  clerical  influence. 
Slowly  the  government  of  the  college  passed 
from  the  hands  of  the  ministers ;  slowly  it 
grew  less  and  less  a  theological  school.  But 
in  reality  no  greater  service  could  be  done  by 
286 


§>tmUap  (Kteninfffi  in  tlje  College  C&apel 

an  institution  of  learning  to  the  Christian 
ministry  than  by  taking  the  institution  out  of 
the  ministers'  hands.  It  was  the  only  way  in 
which  the  ministry  might  have  its  share  in 
the  growth  of  the  world's  thought ;  the  only 
way  in  which  the  college  could  turn  from  rear- 
ing a  strait  ministry  to  the  more  noble  task  of 
rearing  a  broad  ministry.  Those  who  believe 
in  religion  must  believe  that  it  does  not  ask 
of  a  university  a  peculiar  or  exclusive  care, 
but  only  a  fair  chance  for  welcome  and  for 
nurture.  Once  more,  the  Puritan  builded  bet- 
ter than  he  knew.  He  failed  in  his  absorb- 
ing scheme  of  a  seminary  devoted  to  Biblical 
instruction ;  but  he  laid  the  foundation  of  a 
type  of  religion  much  more  likely  to  endure 
than  his  own,  whose  corner-stones,  placed  by 
his  own  hands,  are  piety,  morality,  godliness, 
and  truth. 

These  official  and  organic  aspects  of  the 
college  are,  however,  less  interesting  to-day 
than  are  its  lessons  concerning  personal  and 
individual  life.  Let  us  turn  from  the  college 
as  a  whole  to  the  story  of  its  students'  lives. 
What  are  the  transitions  which  we  there  ob- 
serve ?  How  has  it  been  with  this  army  of 
young  men  ?  Has  student  life  in  these  days 
287 


Stmtta?  (Ebcnittfffif  in  t|>e  College  Cfwpel 

anything  yet  to  learn  of  faith  or  duty  from 
those  primitive  times  ?  It  is  the  spiritual  his- 
tory of  the  college  which  we  are  tracing,  and 
that  is  a  matter  of  personal  character  and  in- 
dividual faith. 

The  first  thing  that  is  noteworthy  in  this 
history  of  personal  character  is  the  fact  that 
the  same  depressing  judgments  were  then 
passed  upon  student  life  which  we  are  in  the 
habit  of  hearing  now.  To  a  certain  class  of 
minds  their  own  age  always  appears  an  age 
of  peculiar  degeneracy.  Many  persons  feel 
this  now,  many  persons  always  have  felt  so, 
and  the  gossip  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  years 
ago  might  almost  be  taken  as  the  gossip  of 
to-day.  Thus  Cotton  Mather  writes  of  child- 
ren who  leave  home  "  with  some  gospel  symp- 
toms of  piety,  and  quickly  lose  all,  and  neither 
do  nor  hear  any  more  such  things  as  they 
had  before  they  left  home  "  ;  and,  again,  of 
"  young  ministers  who  are  the  gifts  of  Christ 
in  the  service  of  our  churches,  who  declare  that 
before  they  came  to  be  what  they  are  they 
found  it  necessary  to  lay  aside  the  sentiments 
which  they  brought  from  the  college  with 
them."  He  inquires,  like  some  modern  critic  of 
the  elective  system,  "  whether  the  pupils,  hav- 
288 


ing  learned  what  is  expected  of  them  (which  to 
the  more  acute  sparks  requires  very  little  pre- 
paration), all  the  rest  of  the  time  is  not,  in  a 
manner,  their  own,  and  little  care  is  taken  to 
make  them  preserve  the  name  of  students  ? " 
To  the  same  effect,  Rev.  Ezekiel  Rogers,  of 
Rowley,  dying  in  1661,  expresses  his  fear 
that  the  golden  age  has  passed.  "  I  tremble 
to  think,"  he  writes,  "  what  will  become  of 
the  glorious  work  we  have  done  when  the 
ancients  shall  be  gathered  with  their  fathers. 
I  fear  grace  and  blessing  will  die  with  them. 
We  grow  worldly  everywhere.  Every  one  for 
himself,  little  care  for  the  public  good." 

The  next  thing  to  notice  is  that  such  com- 
plaints and  despondency  were  quite  as  much 
justified  then  as  now.  Although  the  tutors  chas- 
tized at  discretion,  and  the  students  twice  a  day 
practised  reading  of  the  Scriptures,  "accom- 
panied by  theoretical  observations  on  its 
language  and  logic,"  complaints  of  immorality 
were  by  no  means  rare.  It  was  not  a  time  to 
which  one  may  look  back  as  one  of  strenuous 
morality.  It  was  a  time  in  which  such  offences 
as  blasphemy,  thieving,  card-playing,  and 
extravagance  are  noted  in  the  college  books. 
The  golden  age  of  college  morality  is  not  to 
289 


&mttiap  dftjeninpi  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

be  sought  for  in  its  distant  past ;  nor  does  a 
searching  of  the  records  give  us  any  reason  to 
deplore  the  tendencies  of  the  present.  The 
ethics  of  college  life  show  on  the  whole  a  con- 
tinuous gain.  The  more  one  studies  our  his- 
tory the  more  likely  he  is  to  believe  that  the 
moral  tone  among  us  was  never  higher  than 
it  is  to-day.  The  more  young  men  have  been 
trusted,  the  more  they  have  j  ustified  that  trust ; 
the  more  they  have  been  left  free,  the  better 
has  been  our  college  discipline.  The  super- 
ficial glance  catches  sight  of  the  scum  which 
floats  on  the  surface  of  college  life,  and  calls 
it  unclean,  but  the  nearer  one  gets  to  the 
main  current  of  student  morality  to-day,  the 
surer  he  grows  that  it  is  pure.  He  does  not 
pine  for  the  good  old  times,  for  he  sees  the 
assurance  of  a  manlier  ethics  in  the  tendencies 
and  standards  which  prevail  among  us  now. 

Issuing  from  these  details  of  morality,  we 
are  brought  to  one  great  contrast  of  the 
spiritual  life  of  a  Puritan  student  with  the 
spiritual  life  of  a  young  man  of  to-day,  which 
sums  up  all  that  can  be  said.  It  is  the  con- 
trast between  life  considered  as  an  obligation 
and  life  considered  as  an  opportunity,  between 
life  regulated  by  a  uniform  method  of  super- 
290 


gmitfrap  <£benmg;s  in  tlje  College  C&apel 

imposed  authority  and  life  opening  into  an 
infinite  variety  of  equal  privileges.  Life  as  an 
obligation  made  the  Puritan  what  he  was.  It 
fixed  the  method  of  study  here.  God  demanded 
a  definite  type  of  manhood,  and  it  must  be 
forthcoming.  If  our  founders  had  been  told 
that  this  was  "a  strait  place,"  they  would  have 
retorted,  "  Strait  is  the  gate  that  leadeth  unto 
life,  and  broad  the  way  that  leadeth  unto 
death."  To-day,  instruction  and  persuasion 
encourage  the  sense  of  life  as  an  opportunity. 
This  is  what  distinguishes  a  university  from  a 
school.  Instead  of  uniformity, there  is  liberty; 
instead  of  a  single  and  narrow  way,  an  end- 
less variety  of  paths.  It  is  no  longer  the  choice 
between  a  strait  and  a  broad  way  :  it  is  the 
choice  between  a  highway  and  a  way  which 
one  makes  for  himself.  Under  the  Puritan 
method  a  young  man  stood  looking  along 
a  turnpike  road  ;  he  paid  his  toll  and  his  path 
was  defined.  Under  the  modern  method  he 
stands  looking  up  at  the  mountain  of  the 
scholar's  life ;  and  it  is  for  him  to  make  his  own 
way  upward,  threading  as  he  may  through  the 
underbrush  to  the  prospect  at  the  summit. 

When  this  contrast  thus  presents  itself,  it 
is  naturally  greeted   with  unqualified   satis- 
291 


gmitfrap  (Evening;*  in  t&e  College  C&apel 

faction.  The  gains  in  the  transition  are  obvi- 
ous. It  is  a  deliverance  "  out  of  a  strait  into  a 
broad  place."  But  what  it  becomes  us  to-day 
to  remember  is  this  :  that  the  transition  is  not 
a  form  of  revolution,  but  a  form  of  growth.  It 
is  not  possible  for  an  institution,  or  for  any- 
individual  within  it,  to  appreciate  life  as  an 
opportunity  until  he  has  used  it  as  an  obliga- 
tion. It  is  not  possible,  either  historically  or 
personally,  to  outgrow  the  Puritan  limitation 
until  the  Puritan  position  has  itself  been  held. 
First,  the  qualities  of  Puritanism ;  then,  the 
larger  qualities  which  Puritanism  did  not 
know,  —  such  must  be  the  order  of  growth 
alike  in  the  community  and  in  each  soul. 

This,  for  instance,  is  the  story  of  a  sound 
education.  The  great  transition  of  one's  in- 
tellectual life  occurs,  it  is  true,  when  he 
passes  from  thinking  of  study  as  an  obligation 
to  thinking  of  it  as  an  opportunity.  Then  it 
is  that  the  guidance  of  his  work  is  changed 
from  a  superimposed,  authoritative,  external 
direction  to  a  voluntary,  spontaneous,  inward 
impulse.  Then  it  is  that  he  passes  from  the 
studies  of  a  boy  to  the  studies  of  a  man.  Yet 
it  remains  true  that,  except  in  rare  cases  of 
peculiar  genius,  the  appreciation  of  study  is 
292 


§>tmtoap  (Ktoemngp  in  tfce  College  C&apel 

for  those  only  who  have  been  trained  in  the 
obligations  of  study.  The  method  of  the  boy 
precedes  the  method  of  the  man.  First,  the 
discipline  of  authority  ;  then,  the  discovery 
that  one  may  discipline  himself.  Let  a  young 
man  come  into  the  atmosphere  of  university 
life  without  this  sense  of  obligation,  and  he 
rarely  reaches  the  sense  of  privilege.  Without 
a  background  of  Puritan  discipline,  the  time 
which  in  many  minds  marks  an  intellectual  re- 
generation is  likely  to  be  a  time  frittered  away. 
It  is  the  same  with  the  moral  life.  A 
happy  transition  occurs  when  the  sense  of 
moral  obligation  passes  into  that  of  moral  op- 
portunity, and  the  duties  of  life  are  accepted 
as  its  privileges.  Yet  it  is  none  the  less  true 
that  in  the  soul,  as  in  the  Bible,  the  law  must 
precede  the  gospel.  The  fragrant  flowers  of 
spontaneous  virtue  are  rooted  in  the  disciplined 
sense  of  duty.  They  do  not  outgrow  duty: 
they  grow  out  of  it.  To  seek  them  indepen- 
dently is  but  trying  to  gather  the  fruits  of  life 
without  nourishing  the  roots  of  life.  "  Perfect 
love  casteth  out  fear,"  says  a  nobler  spirit 
than  that  of  the  Puritans  ;  but  no  less  truly 
replies  the  Puritan,  "  The  fear  of  the  Lord  is 
the  beginning  of  wisdom." 

293 


&mtiia?  (Etoenuifffis  in  t\>t  College  C  impel 

The  same  contrast  appears  in  what  we  may- 
call  our  view  of  life.  It  was  a  hard,  stern  view 
which  prevailed  among  the  Puritans,  fostered 
by  their  struggles,  their  poverty,  and  their 
creed.  But  what  courage,  endurance,  and  op- 
timism it  bred !  These  men  never  despaired 
of  their  country,  or  their  race,  or  of  the  final 
purposes  of  God.  And  what,  on  the  other  hand, 
is  this  curious  phenomenon  which  we  now 
witness  among  the  cultivated,  —  a  refined  and 
gentle  pessimism,  a  faith  that  the  world  is 
bad,  and  an  enervating  reliance  on  the  solaces 
of  art  amid  the  wreck  of  hope ;  as  though, 
while  things  must  be  evil,  it  was  comforting 
that  they  were  still  beautiful  ?  It  is,  once  more, 
because  so  many  men  are  now  thrown  among 
the  opportunities  of  life  before  they  have  felt 
the  obligations  of  life.  What  they  need  is 
a  wholesome  reenforcement  of  Puritan  dis- 
cipline, a  healthier  friction  with  reality. 
Strangely  enough,  it  is  not  easy  conditions  of 
life  which  make  men  have  faith  in  life  :  it  is 
hard  conditions.  The  Hebrews  are  led  forth 
into  exile  and  homelessness,  and  develop  a 
glorious  optimism.  Greece  maintains  herself 
in  continuous  struggle  against  overwhelming 
odds,  and  its  consequence  is  not  a  philosophy 
294 


&tmtoap  ©toemnscf  tn  t&c  College  C&apel 

of  despair,  but  a  philosophy  of  hope.  Pessi- 
mism, on  the  other  hand,  is  not  the  outcome 
of  hardship  and  struggle :  it  is  the  outcome 
of  ease  ;  it  is  the  philosophy  of  the  Sybarites. 
They  believe  in  the  badness  of  a  world  which 
they  have  not  tried.  They  praise  the  holiness 
of  beauty,  because  they  have  not  discovered 
the  beauty  of  holiness.  If  one  would  regain 
faith  in  the  world,  it  must  be,  not  by  cultivating 
luxury,  but  by  returning  to  simplicity.  The 
Puritan  view  of  life  has  its  lesson  still  to  teach 
amid  the  multiplying  and  dissipating  resources 
of  the  modern  world  ;  and  where  shall  that 
lesson  be  taught  and  heeded,  if  not  through 
increasing  simplicity  and  diminished  osten- 
tation in  a  Puritan  college  ? 

The  same  transition  may  be  observed  in  the 
religious  world.  It  is  a  blessed  epoch,  either 
in  a  soul  or  in  a  world,  when  it  ceases  to  think 
of  religion  as  an  obligation,  and  comes  to 
prize  religion  as  an  opportunity.  We  still  hear 
of  "supporting  religion,"  or  of  "standing 
up  for  Jesus " ;  as  though  religion  were  a 
poor,  weak  thing,  against  which  we  must 
build  our  scaffoldings  to  buttress  and  sustain 
it.  But  the  fact  is  that  we  do  not  support  re- 
ligion;    it  supports  us.  "Thou  bearest  not 

295 


§>tmfcap  (Etoenuiffs  in  t&e  College  Chapel 

the  root,  but  the  root  thee."  Its  mass  sustains 
our  props  ;  and  when  we  remove  the  scaffold- 
ings of  obligation,  and,  standing  off,  observe 
the  structure  in  its  own  fairness,  then  for  the 
first  time  comes  the  full  glow  of  religious  as- 
surance and  strength.  Religion  is  not  an  in- 
stitution to  be  maintained,  but  an  opportunity 
to  be  accepted,  like  a  great  cathedral  rising  in 
the  heart  of  a  busy  town,  with  its  daily  persua- 
sions to  the  soul. 

Such  is  the  higher  aspect  of  the  religious  life, 
of  which  the  Puritan  teaching  knew  but  little. 
Yet,  once  more,  the  pressing  peril  of  religion 
to-day  lies  in  its  divorce  from  the  religion  of 
the  past.  The  opportunities  of  religion  are  but 
enervating  influences  unless  they  grow  out  of 
its  obligations.  Among  the  essays  of  Mr.  Hut- 
ton  there  is  one  which  deals  with  what  he  calls 
the  "  Hard  Church."  It  is  the  body  of  those 
whose  faith  is  rigid,  authoritative,  obligatory. 
Certainly,  the  Puritans  belonged  to  the  hard 
church ;  and  we  maybe  grateful  that  a  gentler 
age  has  come.  But  an  opposite  peril  besets 
the  modern  world.  It  is  the  danger  of  falling 
into  the  ranks  of  what  we  must  call  the  "  Soft 
Church,"  —  soft,  because  instead  of  faith  it 
offers  a  mush  of  sentiment,  because  it  develops 
296 


J&tm&ap  CtjeninffB  in  t&e  College  Cljapel 

no  vertebrated  thought  or  rigid  ethics,  because 
it  breeds  a  molluscous  morality  and  a  limp 
faith.  The  hard  church  sees  the  obligations 
of  religion,  and  fails  to  see  its  gentler  graces. 
The  soft  church  sees  the  opportunities  of  re- 
ligion, but  builds  on  no  rock  of  obligation.  It 
is  tolerant  toward  other  beliefs,  because  it  has 
no  strong  belief  of  its  own.  It  is  broad,  but 
thin.  It  calls  itself  liberal,  when  it  is  only 
spiritually  indolent.  It  is  liberal  because  it  is 
soft.  The  soft  church  thinks  religion  is  to  be 
had  without  effort,  —  that  while  a  man  has 
to  work  to  be  rich  or  learned,  he  ought,  some- 
how, to  get  his  religion  easily.  It  is  fond  of 
quoting  that  God  can  be  had  for  the  asking, 
as  though  that  asking  for  God  did  not  involve 
the  wrestling  and  waiting  which  the  Puri- 
tan religion  knew  so  well.  If  a  man  would 
build  up  to  the  higher  privileges  of  religion, 
he  must  build  down  to  the  substructure  of  the 
sense  of  obligation.  He  must  endure  hardness 
as  a  good  soldier  of  Jesus  Christ,  or  the  Soft 
Church  will  claim  him  as  its  own. 

Such  is  the  relation  of  the  morals  and  faith 
of  the  Puritans  to  the  morals  and  faith  of  to- 
day. We  have  passed  from  the  domain  of  the 
Puritan  scheme,  and  we  are   grateful.    We 
297 


Smntta?  tEfcemnffs  in  tbe  College  €  Impel 

thank  God  that  we  are  brought  "out  of  a 
strait  into  a  broad  place."  Yet  the  way  before 
us  is  not  that  of  reaction,  but  of  evolution. 
There  never  was  a  time  which  more  needed 
a  background  of  the  Puritan  spirit.  We  need 
in  our  business  morals  a  sterner  sense  of  the 
fear  of  God.  We  need  in  our  homes  a  renewed 
simplicity.  We  need  in  our  religion  a  revival 
of  responsibility.  It  is  the  Puritan  calling  to 
us  across  the  centuries,  and  summoning  us 
to  the  readjustment  of  the  present  with  the 
past. 

And  where  shall  this  problem  of  the  time  be 
most  fitly  solved  ?  In  what  kind  of  commun- 
ity is  it  likely  that  faith  shall  thus  grow  sim- 
ple, responsible,  and  broad  ?  The  Puritan  had 
his  answer  to  this  question.  He  believed  that 
when  men  desired  to  advance  the  kingdom  of 
God,  the  best  thing  they  could  do  was  to 
found  a  college.  We,  too,  reaching  across  the 
gulf  of  years,  join  hands  with  the  Puritans  in 
this  belief.  We  know  that  what  threatens  re- 
ligious truth  is  not  increase  of  learning,  but 
increase  of  ignorance.  We  know  that  when 
minds  are  truly  learned,  they  become,  not  self- 
asserting  or  self-sufficient,  but  humble  and 
tolerant  in  the  presence  of  that  unfathomed 
298 


Smitfiap  Ctoeniiifffli  in  tf)e  College  Cljapel 

mystery  into  which  all  their  learning  opens. 
We  know  that  the  Soft  Church  is  made  up  of 
undisciplined  minds,  superficial  theologians, 
the  self-sufficient  and  the  ignorant.  As  the 
first  glimpse  of  learning  has  turned  many 
minds  from  religion,  so,  by  the  higher  learn- 
ing, religious  conviction  must  be  restored.  If 
scholarship  has  displaced  prevailing  concep- 
tions, it  is  for  the  higher  scholarship  to  bring 
in  a  new  reverence.  The  atmosphere  of  a  true 
university  should  be  pervaded  by  the  sanctity 
of  all  learning  honestly  pursued.  A  college 
dedicated  to  Truth  is  a  servant  of  Christ  and 
of  his  Church. 

Thus  in  the  name  of  religion,  we  praise  and 
honor  our  University.  We  thank  God  that  her 
life  has  been  removed  from  a  strait  place 
and  broadened  toward  a  larger  destiny.  The 
fathers  built  a  little  skiff  and  launched  it  in 
familiar  and  circumscribed  waters,  and  it 
served  them  well ;  but  an  unheeded  current 
bore  it  slowly  down  toward  the  tide  and  the 
scent  of  the  sea.  Their  sons  enlarged  and 
strengthened  it,  and  ventured  forth  beyond 
the  headlands  in  brief  and  timid  voyages  of 
discovery.  For  us,  the  skiff  has  been  trans- 
formed into  a  mighty  vessel;  and  all  the 
299 


SmnUap  (fttentngp  in  t&e  College  Cljapel 

oceans  of  research  are  open  to  it  and  all  the 
continents  of  knowledge  wait  beyond ;  and  its 
dependence  is  no  longer  on  the  changeful 
winds  which  blow  upon  it,  but  on  a  motive 
power  which  is  within  itself.  God  give  it  many 
a  prosperous  voyage,  and  make  it  the  bearer 
of  many  an  honest  man  on  many  a  manly 
errand ! 


300 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U  .  S  .  A 


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